SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.
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.
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.
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?"
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!
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!
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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