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SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.

BY ANDREWS NORTON.

THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie!
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,
Contrasting with the dark blue sky!

In grateful silence, earth receives

The general blessing; fresh and fair,
Each flower expands its little leaves,
As glad the common joy to share,

The soften'd sunbeams pour around
A fairy light, uncertain, pale;
The wind flows cool; the scented ground
Is breathing odours on the gale.

Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,
Methinks some spirit of the air
Might rest, to gaze below a while,
Then turn to bathe and revel there,

The sun breaks forth; from off the scene
Its floating veil of mist is flung;
And all the wilderness of green

With trembling drops of light is hung,

Now gaze on Nature—yet the same—
Glowing with life, by breezes fann'd,
Luxuriant, lovely, as she came,

Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

Hear the rich music of that voice,

Which sounds from all below, above;

She calls her children to rejoice,

And round them throws her arms of love.

Drink in her influence; lowborn Care,
And all the train of mean Desire,
Refuse to breathe this holy air,

And mid this living light expire.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

BY JOHN G. C. BRAINARD.

WHAT is there saddening in the autumn leaves?
Have they that "green and yellow melancholy"
That the sweet poet spake of?-Had he seen
Our variegated woods, when first the frost
Turns into beauty all October's charms-
When the dread fever quits us-when the storms
Of the wild equinox, with all its wet,

Has left the land, as the first deluge left it,
With a bright bow of many colours hung
Upon the forest tops-he had not sigh’d.

The moon stays longest for the hunter now:
The trees cast down their fruitage, and the blithe
And busy squirrel hoards his winter store:
While man enjoys the breeze that sweeps along
The bright, blue sky above him, and that bends
Magnificently all the forest's pride,

Or whispers through the evergreens, and asks,
"What is there saddening in the autumn leaves?"

93

NEW ENGLAND.

BY J. G. WHITTIER.

LAND of the forest and the rock

Of dark blue lake and mighty river— Of mountains rear'd aloft to mock The storm's career, the lightning's shockMy own green land for ever! Land of the beautiful and brave

The freeman's home-the martyr's grave

The nursery of giant men,

Whose deeds have link'd with every glen,
And every hill and every stream,
The romance of some warrior-dream!
O! never may a son of thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky which bent above
His childhood like a dream of love;
The stream beneath the green hill flowing,
The broad-arm'd trees above it growing,
The clear breeze through the foliage blowing;

Or hear unmoved the taunt of scorn
Breathed o'er the brave New England born;
Or mark the stranger's jaguar-hand

Disturb the ashes of thy dead,
The buried glory of a land

Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctified in every part,—
Nor feel resentment like a brand,
Unsheathing from his fiery heart!

O! greener

NEW ENGLAND.

hills may catch the sun Beneath the glorious heaven of France; And streams, rejoicing as they run

Like life beneath the day-beam's glance,
May wander where the orange-bough
With golden fruit is bending low;
And there may bend a brighter sky
O'er green and classic Italy—
And pillar'd fane and ancient grave
Bear record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave
The green luxuriant ivy climb;

And far toward the rising sun

The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening, one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky;
And breezes soft as sighs of love
Above the broad banana stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play!
Yet unto thee, New England, still

Thy wandering sons shall stretch their arms,

And thy rude chart of rock and hill

Seem dearer than the land of palms;
Thy massy oak and mountain-pine

More welcome than the banyan's shade;
And every free, blue stream of thine
Seem richer than the golden bed

Of oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below!

95

THE RETURN OF YOUTH.

BY WILLIAM C. BRYANT.

My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,
For thy fair youthful years too swift of flight;
Thou musest with wet eyes upon the time

Of cheerful hopes that fill'd the world with light, Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,

And prompt thy tongue the generous thought to speak,
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong
Summon'd the sudden crimson to thy cheek.
Thou lookest forward on the coming days,
Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep;
A path, thick-set with changes and decays,

Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;
And they who walk'd with thee in life's first stage,
Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting near,
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age-
Dull love of rest, and weariness and fear.

Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,
Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die.
Thy pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,
Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky:

Waits, like the morn, that folds her wing and hides,
Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;
Waits, like the vanish'd spring, that slumbering bides
Her own sweet time to waken bud and flower.

There shall he welcome thee, when thou shalt stand
On his bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first he took thee by the hand,

Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet.

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