And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Where now the solemn shade, Verdure and gloom where many branches meet Let in through all the trees Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; Their sunny colored foliage, in the breeze Twinkles, like beams of light. The rivulet, late unseen, Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, Shines with the image of its golden screen, And glimmerings of the sun. But 'neath yon crimson tree, Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Her blush of maiden shame. Oh, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad, Ah! 'twere a lot too blest Forever in thy colored shades to stray; And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and powerThe passions and the cares that wither life, And waste its little hour. Great Barrington, 1824. VOL. I.-8 "United States Literary Gazette," October 15, 1824. MUTATION. 'HEY talk of short-lived pleasure—be it so— THE Pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go. The fiercest agonies have shortest reign; Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease: Are fruits of innocence and blessedness: Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release press. Weep not that the world changes-did it keep A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep. Great Barrington, 1824. "United States Literary Gazette," November 15, 1824. NOVEMBER. ET one smile more, departing, distant sun! YETCO One mellow smile through the soft vapory air, Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare. One smile on the brown hills and naked trees, Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the.russet lea, And man delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. Great Barrington, 1824. “United States Literary Gazette," November 15, 1824. SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON. I BUCKLE to my slender side The pistol and the scimitar, And in my maiden flower and pride That paws the ground and neighs to go, My charger of the Arab breed I took him from the routed foe. My mirror is the mountain-spring, I kept its bloom, and he is dead. But they who slew him-unaware |