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And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hitting and splitting,
And shining and twining,
And rattling and battling,
And shaking and quaking,
And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and growing,
And running and stunning,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And dinning and spinning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And heaving and cleaving,
And thundering and floundering;

And falling and crawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
Dividing and gliding and sliding,

And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;

And gleaming and steaming and streaming and beaming,
And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,

And thumping and flumping and bumping and jumping,
And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing,

And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending
All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar-
And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

AUTUMN.

By EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

MONTH of the fire-ting'd leaves! why shall December
Scatter them, saying, "Honour to the strong?"

Quietest month of Robin Redbreast's song!
Month of its sweetest quietness, September!

Thought's month! pale townsmen, stretch'd in pain, re

member

Thy second bloom of dewy flowers, and long
In vain, to wander with the golden gorse,

Where heav'n's blue brightens, and thy bluebells throng
Over the uplands. Village children learn

Early to seek them there, The poor man's horse
Rejoices, too; and while the gorgeous fern
Deepens the glory of thy yellow wastes,

The sad-brow'd gipsy to their greenness hastes,

And to thy fountain'd swamps the worm-fed birds return.

Art thou a colourist? mark how yon red
Poppy, and that bright patch of yellow bloom,
Cliff-borne above green depths and purply gloom,

Like spark and blaze on smiling darkness shed,
Give and take beauty! Mark, too, overhead,
How the rich verdure of this ancient tree,
And the deep purple of the bank, agree
To thrive in partnership! And while the bed
Of the clear stream, through tints of every hue,
Lifts its bath'd pebbles, lo! to brighten all,
The little harebell brings its bit of blue,
And is a gainer! happy to behold

Red blessing green, and purple gilding gold;
Of light and shade a marriage festival!

Aye, startle with the sound of fallen leaves
Yon white-hair'd man. October! he, like thee,
To summer's glowing brightness fondly cleaves,
And doom'd no...ore of hope's glad crew to be,
Speaks of his mournful doom reproachfully.
His year hath gather'd in its golden sheaves.
The weary wretch complains, that he must sleep.
Because his work is done, the idler grieves;
Because he can no longer get or keep

The things that call on men to toil and weep.
Then, let thy far-off sea- voic'd winds growl out
Their "Here-we-come!" forestalling accents deep
Of doom's dread trumpet! when the heav'ns will shout,
"Hasten to Judgment, Child of Death and Doubt!"
Flower-weeping April starts to life again,
When arch October for November weaves
A wedding garment in a shroud of tears.
'Tis made of pearlets splinter'd from the rain;
Or dewdrops shaken from the nodding spears
That guard the cold roots of the bare blackthorn;
And flowers (like April's) hasten to adorn

Its mix'd hues, won from sunset. Through fall'n leaves
The primrose peeps! hom'd where the wren abides;
The violet, too! that would be lov'd, yet hides

Her beauty, dark with passion; and the whin,

Pale want's rough friend, laughs out to all "Good morrow,"
And calls no child of woe a child of sin,

But, April-blossom'd, hoards a smile for sorrow.
November's marriage-peal, far-off, is booming:
The bridegroom's face is sorrowfully glooming;
He saith, "December's chilling mist is coming!"
His gait is feeble, and his back is bow'd.

The sad wind suddenly its moaning husheth ;
Hark! scarcely heard, the unseen runlet gusheth!
But soon again the moaning wind outrusheth,
And seemeth bickering with some mournful cloud.
Beneath the sickly moon the owl is flying;
Not to the misty moon the owl is crying;
Not to the owl the startled rat replying:
November married April and is dying!
Near him, his young bride patiently is sighing;
And, lo, the moon hath cast away her shroud!

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

By ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

O! MY love's like the stedfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run;
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and tears,
Nor nights of thought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain,
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song that flows
To sober joys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy flee
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.

Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;
Fair, gentle, as when first I sued,
Ye seem, but of sedater mood;
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee,
As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stayed and wooed, and thought the moon
Set on the sea an hour too soon,

Or linger'd 'mid the falling dew,

When looks were fond and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet

Five sons, and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time and care and birthtime woes

Have dimmed thine eye, and touch'd thy rose ;
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
Whate'er charms me in tale or song.
When words descend like dews unsought,
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought,
And fancy in her heaven flies free,
They come, my love, they come from thee.

O, when more thought we gave, of old,
To silver, than some give to gold,
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er,
How we should deck our humble bower:

'Twas sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit of fortune's tree;
And sweeter still to choose and twine
A garland for that brow of thine:

A song-wreath which may grace my Jean,
While rivers flow, and woods grow green.

At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,-
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like a rainbow through the shower;
O then I see, while seated nigh,

A mother's heart shine in thine eye;
And proud resolve, and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak,—
I think this wedded wife of mine

The best of all things not divine.

THE PROCESSION OF THE SEASONS.

By SPENSER, from The Faerie Queene.

So forth issued the seasons of the year;
First lusty Spring, all dight in leaves of flowers
That freshly budded, and new blooms did bear,
In which a thousand birds had built their bowers,
That sweetly sung to call forth paramours;
And in his hand a javelin he did bear,
And on his head (as fit for warlike stoures)
A gilt engraven morion he did wear,

That as some did him love, so others did him fear.

Then came the jolly Summer, being dight
In a thin silken cassock coloured green,
That was unlined all, to be more light,
And on his head a garland well beseen
He wore, from which, as he had chafed been,
The sweat did drop, and in his hand he bore
A bow and shafts, as he in forest green,
Had hunted late the leopard or the boar,

And now would bathe his limbs with labour heated sore.

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