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ERE, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold,

In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round, Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendors glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet south-west, at play,

Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are


Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; So grateful, when the noon of summer made The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright;

Their sunny-colored foliage, in the breeze,
Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where bickering through the shrubs its waters


Shines with the image of its golden screen
And glimmerings of the sun.

But 'neath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,

Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad; Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,

And leave thee wild and cod?

Ah! 'twere a lot too blest

For ever in thy colored shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft south-west

To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain low strife

That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and


The passions and the cares that wither life,
And waste its little hour.



THEY talk of short-lived pleasure-be it soPain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain

Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign; And after dreams of horror, comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace.

Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain, Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease; Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase

Are fruits of innocence and blessedness,

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