The autumn winds rushing,

Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,
When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the corei,*

Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED.-Mrs. Southey.

TREAD Softly,bow the head,-
In reverent silence bow,

No passing bell doth toll,

Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence bow;

There's one in that poor

One by that paltry bed,

Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

shed,

Lo! Death doth keep his state;

Enter! no crowds attend ;

Enter! no guards defend

This palace-gate.

* The hollow side of the hill, where game usually lies.

That pavement damp and cold
No smiling courtiers tread;
One silent woman stands,
Lifting with meagre hands
A dying head.

No mingling voices sound, -
An infant wail alone;
A sob suppressed,- agen
That short, deep gasp, and then
The parting groan.

O change! O wondrous change! -
Burst are the prison-bars;
This moment there, so low,
So agonized, and now
Beyond the stars!

SWEET flocks, whose soft, enamelled wing Swift and gently cleaves the sky,

Whose charming notes address the spring With an artless harmony;

Lovely minstrels of the field,

Who in leafy shadows sit,

And your wondrous structures build,

Awake your tuneful voices with the dawning light;
To nature's God your first devotions pay,
Ere you salute the rising day;

'Tis he calls up the sun, and gives him every ray.

Serpents, who o'er the meadows slide,
And wear upon your shining back
Numerous ranks of gaudy pride,
Which thousand mingling colors make;
Let the fierce glances of your eyes
Rebate their baleful fire;

In harmless play, twist and unfold
The volumes of your scaly gold ;
That rich embroidery of your gay attire
Proclaims your Maker kind and wise.

Insects and mites of mean degree,
That swarm in myriads o'er the land,
Moulded by Wisdom's artful hand,
And curled and painted with a various dye;
In your innumerable forms

Praise him that wears the ethereal crown,
And bends his lofty counsels down
To despicable worms.

TO THE EVENING WIND. — Bryant.

SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day,
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,

Riding all day the wild blue waves till now, Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee
To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea!

Nor I alone;

a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And, languishing to hear thy grateful sound,
Lies the vast inland stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth!

Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning from the innumerable boughs The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast; Pleasant shall be thy way where meekly bows The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass, And 'twixt the o'ershadowing branches and the grass.

The faint old man shall lean his silver head
To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moistened curls that overspread
His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed
Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,

And softly part his curtains to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow.

Go,

but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of nature, shall restore, With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range,

Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;

Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

THE ERL KING.

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOETHE.

WHO rideth so late through the night-wind wild?
It is the father with his child;

He has the little one well in his arm;
He holds him safe, and he folds him warm.

"My son, why hidest thy face so shy?"
"Seest thou not, father, the Erl King nigh?
The Erlen King, with train and crown? "
"It is a wreath of mist, my son."

"Come, lovely boy, come, go with me; Such merry plays I will play with thee; Many a bright flower grows on the strand,

And my mother has many a gay garment at hand."

My father, my father, and dost thou not hear What the Erl King whispers in my ear?"

"Be quiet, my darling, be quiet, my child; Through withered leaves the wind howls wild."

"Come, lovely boy, wilt thou go with me? My daughters fair shall wait on thee; My daughters their nightly revels keep; They'll sing, and they 'll dance, and they 'll rock thee to sleep."