And weaves strange garlands from the withered flowers, To crown the head-stone of departed hopes, Thou art a welcome guest. But when in youth and health, without a sign, Thou comest in thy most appalling form, Swift as the sunbeam streaming from on high, Then thou dost rudely snap hope’s brightest buds, And form dread sepulchres in every heart— Chasms that never close with rolling years— Wounds that forever festering, never heal, Till deeper sorrows settle on the soul. Autumn departs, and with it ends the song Of the rude bard, who first essayed to sing In high scholastic verse, its scenes of gold; A pleasant pastime for an idle month, When the hot sun pour’d down its sickly rays. And pestilence at noonday walked abroad. Autumn departs, and on its cheerless gale, Sighing o’er barren moor and russet grove, The feeble lay goes forth, with deep distrust, And much of hope, entwined with more of fear. If it shall fail—and stranger things have been, And with the leaves around, whirl through the glen, And up the forest’s melancholy path, Lifeless and useless, as its withered band. ’Tis an old truth, by bard of sweetness told, “Leaves have their time to fall, and stars to set.” But if perchance some generous soul shall take The half-fledged warbler to a pleasant home, Where bright-eyed children gather in their joy— Type of the host that throng the homes of Heaven— Glean from its varied notes one sound to please, One truth to charm and elevate the soul, And bid young genius in her wild-wood sing, The scenes and glories of her native land— Then shall the bard in his retreat rejoice, And sing again, when spring, with sunny brow, Shall speak the resurrection of the flowers. * * * * * STANZAS. BY THOMAS FITZGERALD. Ah! weary days have passed since last we met, But not with time has distance longer grown! My heart, well-tutored, never can forget Its love for thee, my beautiful, my own! I would that I were near thee, gentle one, To see thee gladly smile, and hear thee speak, And list the sweetness of thy silver tone, And mark the changes on thy blushing cheek! I see the pathway where our ramble led— Where brightest flowers in rarest fragrance vied— The fairy nook, whence sunlight trembling fled, And laughing water-fall in music died! But not for me the pensive walk of eve— Life’s sterner duties claim my footsteps now; Yet does the yearning heart full often grieve For those dear haunts where first we breathed love’s vow. * * * * * THE PORTRAIT. BY KATE DASHWOOD.