We have already spoken of the numerous _friends_ of the poet; and we shall not here insist upon the fact, that _we_ bear him no personal ill will. With those who know us, such a declaration would appear supererogatory; and by those who know us not, it would, doubtless, be received with incredulity. What we have said, however, is _not_ in opposition to Mr. Dawes, nor even so much in opposition to the poems of Mr. Dawes, as in defence of the many true souls which, in Mr. Dawes’ apotheosis, are aggrieved. The laudation of the unworthy is to the worthy the most bitter of all wrong. But it is unbecoming in him who merely demonstrates a truth, to offer reason or apology for the demonstration. * * * * * AN AUTUMN REVERIE. BY WILLIAM FALCONER. Hail! ye lone woods, in Nature’s mourning clad; Hail! ye sere leaves, low melting in the breeze; Meet is thy reign, pale Autumn, for the sad, And soft thy solace for the mind’s disease; Again I hail thee, sabbath of the year! Upon us kindly smile, for Winter winds are near! In this cathedral vast, by tall elms reared, While through yon leafy oriel streams the sun On those old boughs, by many an Autumn seared I’d dream of friends who life’s rude race have run— Whose memory, like rare odor, fills my heart, Nor fades, but richer grows, and is of it a part. Where are the gay plumed warblers of the Spring? Those winged souls, at whose melodious songs The green leaves danced with joy? On tireless wing To brighter bowers have flown the golden throngs; But they, when winds are weary of their wrath, Shall fill our groves once more, and glad the woodland path. But what new Spring shall breathe upon thy tomb Or summon back friends wintry Death has banished? They grow enamored of those bowers of bloom To which they soared when from our side they vanished, And ne’er return, or, haply so, unseen— Dwelling in Memory’s dreams, pure, changeless, and serene. Perchance we err, for, though no mortal eye May look on Immortality, yet they May clothe them in the azure of the sky, Or shroud their light wings in the moon’s pale ray; Or, in the likeness of some mutual star, Smile on repentant tears and soothe our mental war. And art thou present in this solitude, Thou early, only loved, sweet beam of youth? Thou fairest of all Memory’s sisterhood, Bright as a poet’s dream, and pure as Truth! Fair guardian spirit, thou art with me now— It is, it is thy sigh, which stirs the rustling bough!