Is this the fruit of her latter days,
From the gather'd love of centuries,
And piled up wisdom of the past,
To bow to her very dust at last!

THE ECLIPSE.*

BY FRANCES BROWN.

Watchers are on the earth; and o'er the sky
Strange darkness gathers, like a funeral pall,
Shrouding the summer day, while stars, that lie
Far in the depth of heaven, rekindle all
Their faded fires. But where is now the sun,

That arose so glorious on the Alps to-day?
Methinks his journey short and early done.
Not thus his wont to leave fair Italy

Not thus so near the skirts of rosy June!
Why is the midnight come before the noon?

Night, but not silence, for old Pavia speaks,
As with the voice of unforgotten years,
When victory was her's. What now awakes
Such music in the fallen land of fears?
Is it some ancient echo in her heart,

Surviving Roman power and Gothic gold!
Or, glorious dream, that might not all depart
The memory of brave battles won of old-
That wakes the pealing of that joyous cheer,

Which the far mountains answer deeply clear'

Du ing the eclipse of the sun which occurred in the end of July, 1844, the citi zens of Pavia assembled in multitudes, in the principal square, for the purpose of witnessing the phenomenon; and in the midst of the deepest darkness, when the moon and stars were plainly visible, the whole concourse burst into one simultane

ons shout.

Or, hath the gathered city's mighty voice
The queen of night amid her trophies hailed,
As conqueror of the sun? Could she rejoice
To see the splendor of his presence vailed,
Who walked the heavens in unshared majesty,
Since Time was born, the brightest and the first
Of thousand gods :- still glorious on his way,

As when through ancient night his chariot burst, And swept the circuit of those cloudless skies, That yet heard only starry harmonies?

Not so rejoiced the Grecian legions, led
By great Iskander to the Persian shore;
No so Ceoropia's host. But days of dread
Are past the twilight of the world is o'er,
With all its shadows. Pavia, from thy walls
We hear the spirit of our brighter days
Proclaim to Alpine huts and Roman halls,

The morn that met the sage or prophet's gaze, Through the far dimness of that long eclipse, Whose mighty darkness sealed great Galileo's lips.

AUTUMN.

BY FRANOES BROWN.

Oh, welcome to the corn-clad slope,
And to the laden tree,

Thou promised autumn; for the hope
Of nations turned to thee,

Through all the hours of splendor past,
With summer's bright career;

And we see thee on thy throne at last,
Crowned monarch of the year!

Thou comest with the gorgeous flowers
That make the roses dim,

With morning mists and sunny hours
And wild bird's harvest hymn;

Thou comest with the might of floods,

The glow of moonlit skies,

And the glory flung on fading woods,
Of thousand mingled dyes!

But never seem'd thy steps so bright
On Europe's ancient shore,
Since faded from the poet's sight,
That golden age of yore;

For early harvest-home hath poured

Its gladness on the hearth,

And the joy that lights the princely board
Hath reached the peasant's hearth.

O Thou, whose silent bounty flows
To bless the sower's art,

With gifts that ever claim from us
The harvests of the heart-

If thus thy goodness crowns the year,
What shall the glory be,

When all thy harvest, whitening here,
Is gathered home to thee!

FAREWELL TO THE FLOWERS.

BY FRANCES BROWN.

Farewell! farewell! bright children of the sun,
Whose beauty rose around our path where'er
We wander'd forth since vernal days begun-
The glory and the garland of the year.

Ye came, the children of the spring's bright promise-
Ye crown'd the summer in her path of light;

And now when autumn's wealth is passing from us,
We gaze upon your parting boon, as bright
And dearer far than summer's richest hue---
Sweet flowers, adieu!

You will return again; the early beans

Of spring will wake ye from your wintry sleep, By the still fountains and the shining streams,

That through the green and leafy woodlands sweep; Ye will return again, to cheer the bosoms

Of the deep valleys, by old woods o'erhung,
With the fresh fragrance of your opening blossoms,
To be the joy and treasure of the young-
With birds from the far lands, and sunny hours,
Ye will return, sweet flowers.

But when will they return, our flowers that fell
From life's blanch'd garland when its bloom was new
And left but the dim memories that dwell

In silent hearts and homes? The summer's dew And summer's sun, with all their balm and brightness, May fall on deserts or on graves in vain;

But to the locks grown dim with early whiteness,
What spring can give the sable back again,
Or to the early wither'd heart restore

Its perish'd bloom once more?

In vain, in vain-years come and years depart-
Time hath its changes, and the world its tears;
And we grow old in frame, and gray in heart-
Seeking the grave through many hopes and fears
But still the ancient earth renews around us

Her faded flowers, though life renews no more
The bright but early broken ties that bound us,
The garlands that our blighted summers wore:
Birds to the trees, and blossoms to the bowers
Return-but not life's flowers!

Thus sang the bard, when autumn's latest gold
Hung on the woods, and summer's latest bloom
Was fading fast, as winter, stern and col1,

Came from his northern home of clouds and gloom.

But from the dying flowers a voice seem'd breathing
Of higher hopes; it whisper'd sweet and low-
"When spring again her sunny smile is wreathing,
We will return to thee-but thou must go
To seek life's blighted blossoms on that shore
Where flowers can fade no more!"

THE LAST OF THE JAGELLONS.

BY FRANCES BROWN.

"Oh, minstrel, wake thy harp once more,
For winter's twilight falls,

And coldly dim it darkens o'er
My lonely heart and halls:
But memories of my early home

Around me gather fast

For still with twilight shadows come

The shadows of the past.

"Then wake thy lyre, my faithful bard,
And breathe again for me

The songs that in my land was heard,
While yet that land was free

The lays of old romantic times,

When hearts and swords were true

They will recall the dazzling dreams
That youth and childhood knew."

Twas thus the noble matron spake
To one whose tuneful strains
Could win her exiled spirit back
To Poland's pleasant plains;
But now did memory's wizard-wand
Far distant scenes portray,

As thus the minstrel of the land

A woke her lyre and lay: