Composed by Mr. J. P. Brace. my teacher at Litchfield Conn. and written here by himself.— AN OCTOBER EVENING. The setting sun now shuts the day, His face no vapors cloak, No gold-tinged cloud around him play, His last rays smile not, cheer not, now. But with a stern and bloody brow, He wades through seas of smoke. No blushing beams the path unfold, In which the monarch treads; A path where once the living gold, Fringed every deep with gold with fire And bade night’s eastern studs retire Nor show their star crowned heads, Where once the rosy twilight blushed, Upon the dark blue sky The thick smoke has in anger flushed And in its dun and moveless clouds The sun his red face sullen shrouds, Nor backward turns his eye. No mists fantastic rise and curl, Upon the glassy lake Or on its breast their forms unfurl; But on its wave the dun cloud lies Like those which o’er lifes current rise That hope and joy forsake. Sear’d is the poplars quivering leaf. And crisp’d and red the oak Like life their course as gay and brief; For always as decay appears Their gayest robes the forest wears And smiles at deaths last stroke, Lifes pleasures are as briefly bright, As autumn’s leaves so gay. Then why regard their fickle light; Tho’ dazzling as they may be now Like snow-wreaths on the cataracts brow They soon will melt away, Now on rides night with quickened pace A night of cold and gloom, Her brow no star formed circlets grace; Now closing round she covers all With the same sad and darksom pall A darkness like the tomb. By MR. J. P. BRACE. S. CLEAVLAND FAREWELL TO THEE HYPE. Away with thee, Hype thou bird of the night; Unfurl thy dark wing and escape from my breast, I have nestled thee long, thou ill omend sprite, No more with your screams shall you drive away rest, Why should I murmur if sorrow and ill, Cloud o’er my sun shine and darken my road, We ca’nt alway travel on pleasures bright hill, Our path will oft lead us to sorrows abode,