And on a careless, sullen peace, my double-fronted

mind,

Like Janus, when his gates are shut, looks forward and behind.

Apollo placed his harp, of old, awhile upon a stone, Which has resounded since, when struck, a breaking harp-string's tone;

And thus my heart, though wholly now from earthly softness free,

If touched, will yield the music yet, it first received of

thee.

THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

THE melancholy days are come, the saddest of the

year,

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sere.

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the withered leaves

lie dead,

They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread,

The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs

the jay,

And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.

Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprung and stood

In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?

THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.

195

Alas! they all are in their graves-the gentle race of

flowers

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of

ours:

The rain is falling where they lie-but the cold November rain

Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose, and the orchis died, amid the summer's glow;

But on the hill the golden rod, and the aster in the wood,

And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn beauty stood,

Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,

And the brightness of their smile was gone from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day-as still such days will come,

To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter

home;

When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,

And twinkle in the hazy light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream

no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty

died,

The fair meek blossom that grew up, and faded by my side.

196

THE CLOSE OF AUTUMN.

In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,

And we wept that one so lovely should have a lot so brief;

Yet not unmeet it was, that one, like that young friend of ours,

So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

LINES ON A SKULL.

BEHOLD this ruin !—'twas a skull,
Once of ethereal spirit full.

This narrow cell was life's retreat

This space was Thought's mysterious seat ;-
What beauteous pictures filled this spot!
What dreams of pleasure, long forgot!
Nor love, nor joy, nor hope, nor fear,
Has left one trace or record here!

Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye;
But start not at the dismal void,
If social love that eye employed,-
If with no lawless fire it gleamed,-

But through the dew of kindness beamed,
That eye shall be for ever bright
When stars and suns have lost their light.

Here, in this silent cavern hung

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue;
If falsehood's honey is disdained,

And, where it could not praise, was chained—
If bold in virtue's cause, it spoke,

Yet gentle concord never broke.—

LINES ON A SKULL.

That tuneful tongue shall plead for thee
When death unveils eternity.

Say, did these fingers delve the mine,
Or with its envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock, to wear the gem,
Can nothing now avail to them;
But if the page of truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that waits on wealth or fame.

Avails it, whether bare or shod,
These feet the path of duty trod?
If from the bowers of joy they fled,
To soothe affliction's humble bed-
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to virtue's lap returned-
These feet with angels' wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky.

MY BIRTHDAY.

BY T. MOORE.

"My birthday"-what a different sound
That word had in my youthful years!
And how, each time the day comes round,
Less and less white the mark appears.
When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And, as youth counts the shining links,
That time around him binds so fast,
Pleased with the task, he little thinks
How hard that chain will press at last.

197

Vain was the man, and false as vain,
Who said "Were he ordained to run
His long career of life again,

He would do all that he had done."
Ah, 'tis not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birthdays, speaks to me;
Far otherwise-of time it tells,

Lavished unwisely-carelessly-
Of counsel mocked, of talents, made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines ;-
Of nursing many a wrong desire-
Of wandering after love too far,
And taking every meteor fire,

That crossed my pathway, for his star!
All this it tells, and, could I trace
The imperfect picture o'er again,
With power to add, retouch, efface,

The lights and shades, the joy and pain,
How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away :-

All but that freedom of the mind,

Which hath been more than wealth to me;
Those friendships, in my boyhood twined,
And kept till now unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where love's true light at last I've found,
Cheering within, when all grows dark,
And comfortless, and stormy, round!