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Presents but varied beauties, transient all,

All in their season good. These fading leaves

That with their rich variety of hues

Make yonder forest in the slanting sun

So beautiful, in you awake the thought

Of winter, cold, drear winter; when these trees

Each like a fleshless skeleton' shall stretch

Its bare brown boughs; when not a flower shall spread

Its colours to the clay, and not a bird

Carol its joyance,—but all nature wear

One sullen aspect, bleak and desolate,

To eye, ear, feeling, comfortless alike.

To me their many-coloured beauties speak '."'

Of times of merriment and festival,

The year's best holiday: I call to mind

The school-boy days, when in the falling leaves

I saw with eager hope the pleasant sign

Of coming Christmas, when at morn I took

My wooden kalendar, and counting up

Once more its often-told account, smoothed off

Each day with more delight the daily notch.

To you the beauties of the autumnal year

Make mournful emblems, and you think of man

Doomed to the grave's long winter, spirit-broke,

Bending beneath the burden of his years,

Sense-dulled and fretful, ' full of aches and pain?,'

Yet clinging still to life. To me they show

The calm decay of nature, when the mind

Retains its strength, and in the languid eye

Religion's holy hopes kindle a joy

That makes old age look lovely. All to you

Is dark and cheerless; you in this fair world

See some destroying principle abroad,

Air, earth, and water, full of living things

Each on the other preying; and the ways

Of man, a strange perplexing labyrinth,

Where crimes and miseries, each producing each,

Render life loathsome, and destroy the hope

That should in death bring comfort. Oh my friend

That thy faith were as mine! that thou couldst see

Death still producing life, and evil still

Working its own destruction; couldst behold

The strifes and tumults of this troubled world

With the strong eye that sees the promised day

Dawn through this night of tempest! all things then

Would minister to joy; then should thine heart

Be healed and harmonized, and thou shouldst feel

God, always, every-where, and all in all.

Soutftey. ON MELROSE ABBEY.

If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright,

Go visit it by the pale moon-light;

For the gay beams of lightsome day

Gild, but to flout, the ruins gray.

When the broken arches are black in night,

And each shafted oriel glimmers white;

When the cold light's uncertain shower

Streams on the ruined central tower;

When buttress and buttress, alternately,

Seem framed of ebon and ivory;

When silver edges the imagery,

And the scrolls that teach thee to live and die;

When distant Tweed is beard to rave,

And the owlet to hoot o'er the dead man's grave;

Then go—but go alone the while—

Then view St David's rained pile.

Sir W. Scott.

HEROD'S LAMENT FOR MARIAMNE.

i* Oh! Mariamne I now for thee

The heart for which thou bled'st is bleeding; Revenge is lost in agony,

And wild remorse to rage succeeding. Oh, Mariamne I where art thou?

Thou canst not hear my bitter pleading! Ah, could'st thou—thou would'st pardon now,

Though heaven were to my prayer unheeding. i . . 'ii. .,

Ii. And is she dead ?—and did they dare

Obey my phrenzy's jealous raving? My wrath but doomed my own despair:

The sword that smote hers o'er me waving.— But thou art cold, my murdered love!

And this dark heart is vainly craving For her who soars alone above,

And leaves my soul unworthy saving.

III.

She's gone, who shared my diadem:

She sunk, with her my joys emtombing; I swept that flower from Judah's stem

Whose leaves for me alone were blooming. And mine's the guilt, and mine the hell,

This bosom's desolation dooming; And I have earned those tortures well,

Which unconsumed are still consuming!

Byron.

THE TOO EARLY OPENING FLOWER.

Not yet, frail flower! thy charms unclose;

Too soon thou venturest forth again;

For April has its winter-rain,
And tempest-clouds and nipping snows.
Too quickly thou uprear'st thy head;

The northern wind may reach thee still,

And injure—nay, for ever kill
Thy charming white and lovely red.
And thou perchance too late will sigh,

That at the first approach of spring,

Thou madest thy bud unfold its wing, And show its blush to every eye;

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