The gay Spring With its young charms, has gone--gone with its leaves-- Its atmosphere of roses, its white clouds Slumbering like seraphs in the air--its birds Telling their loves in music--and its streams Leaping and shouting from the up-piled rocks To make earth echo with the joy of waves. And Summer, with its dews and showers, has gone-- Its rainbows glowing on the distant cloud [Illustration: "ITS PEACEFUL LAKES SMILING IN THEIR SWEET SLEEP."] Like Spirits of the Storm--its peaceful lakes Smiling in their sweet sleep, as if their dreams Were of the opening flowers and budding trees And overhanging sky--and its bright mists Resting upon the mountain tops, as crowns Upon the heads of giants. Autumn too Has gone, with all its deeper glories--gone With its green hills like altars of the world Lifting their rich fruit-offerings to their God-- Its cool winds straying 'mid the forest aisles To wake their thousand wind-harps--its serene And holy sunsets hanging o'er the West Like banners from the battlements of Heaven-- And its still evenings, when the moonlit sea Was ever throbbing, like the living heart Of the great Universe--Aye--these are now But sounds and visions of the past--their deep, Wild beauty has departed from the Earth, And they are gathered to the embrace of Death, Their solemn herald to Eternity. Nor have they gone alone. High human hearts Of Passion have gone with them. The fresh dust Is chill on many a breast, that burned erstwhile With fires that seemed immortal. Joys, that leaped Like angels from the heart, and wandered free In life's young morn to look upon the flowers, The poetry of nature, and to list The woven sounds of breeze, and bird, and stream, Upon the night-air, have been stricken down In silence to the dust. Yet, why muse Upon the past with sorrow? Though the year Has gone to blend with the mysterious tide Of old Eternity, and borne along Upon its heaving breast a thousand wrecks Of glory and of beauty--yet, why mourn That such is destiny? Another year Succeedeth to the past--in their bright round The seasons come and go--the same blue arch, That hath hung o'er us, will hang o'er us yet-- The same pure stars that we have loved to watch, Will blossom still at twilight's gentle hour Like lilies on the tomb of Day--and still Man will remain, to dream as he hath dreamed, And mark the earth with passion. Weep not, that Time Is passing on--it will ere long reveal A brighter era to the nations. [Illustration: WHICH WILL GET IT?] [Illustration: AIRY NOTHINGS.