A Still Day in Autumn.

Mrs. Whitman.

I

LOVE to wander through the woodlands hoary

In the soft light of an Autumnal day,

When Summer gathers up her robes of glory,

And like a dream of Beauty glides away.

How in each loved, familiar path she lingers,
Serenely smiling through the golden mist,
Tinting the wild-grape with her dewy fingers,
Till the cool emerald turns to amethyst.

Kindling the faint stars of the hazel shining,

To light the gloom of Autumn's mouldy halls; With hoary plumes the Clematis entwining

Where o'er the rock her withered garland falls.

Warm lights are on the sleepy uplands waning,
Beneath soft clouds along the horizon rolled,
Till the slant sunbeams thro' their fringes raining,
Bathe all the hills in melancholy gold.

234

MRS. WHITMAN.

Beside the brook and on the umbered meadow,

Where yellow fern-tufts fleck the faded ground,
With folded lids beneath their palmy shadow,
The Gentian nods in dewy slumbers bound.

The little birds upon the hill-side lonely

Flit noiselessly along from spray to spray; Silent as a sweet wandering thought, that only Shows its bright wings and softly glides away.

The scentless flowers in the warm sunlight dreaming, Forget to breathe their fulness of delight,

And through the tranced woods soft airs are streaming, Still as the dew-fall of the Summer night.

So in my heart, a sweet, unwonted feeling
Stirs like the wind in ocean's hollow shell,
Through all its secret chambers sadly stealing,

Yet finds no word its mystic charm to tell.

The Moon.

MOTHER of light! how fairly dost thou go

Over those hoary crests, divinely led!

Art thou that Huntress of the silver bow

Hood.

Fabled of old? Or rather, dost thou tread
Those cloudy summits hence to gaze below,
Like the wild chamois on her Alpine snow,
Where hunter never climbed-secure from dread?
A thousand ancient fancies I have read

Of that fair presence, and a thousand wrought,
Wondrous and bright,

Upon the silver light,

Tracing fresh figures with the artist thought.

What art thou like? Sometimes I see thee ride
A far-bound galley on its perilous way,
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray:
Sometimes behold thee glide,

Clustered by all thy family of stars,

Like a lone widow through the welkin wide,

Whose pallid check the midnight sorrow mars

Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep, Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch,

Till in some Latinian cave I see thee creep, To catch the young Endymion asleep, Leaving thy splendor at the jagged porch.

O thou art beautiful, howe'er it be!

Huntress, or Diana, or whatever named,-
And he the veriest Pagan who first framed
A silver idol, and ne'er worshipped thee;

It is too late, or thou should'st have my knee,-
Too late now for the old Ephesian vows,

And not divine the crescent on thy brows;

Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild moon, Behind those chestnut boughs,

Casting their dappled shadows at my feet;

I will be grateful for that simple boon,
In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet,
And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet.

The Evening Gilliflower.

Anon.

COME, look at this plant, with its narrow, pale leaves,

And its tall, slim, delicate stem,

Thinly studded with flowers!—yes, with flowers!—
There they are!

Don't you see at each joint there's a little brown star?
But in truth, there's no beauty in them.

So you ask why I keep it? the little mean thing!
Why I stick it up here, just in sight,—

'Tis a fancy of mine,-" A strange fancy!" you say;
"No accounting for tastes!" In this instance, you may,
For the flower. . But I'll tell you to-night.

...

Some six hours hence, when the Lady Moon
Looks down on that bastion'd wall,
When the twinkling stars dance silently,

On the rippling surface of the sea,
And the heavy night-dews fall;