When Autumn steals on, clad in purple and gold, The mountains and woods in his robe to enfold, And flowers, as they gaze on the dull, paling sky, Grow weary of life and so bow them to die; When forest-leaves gently are falling to earth, And gay singing waters forgetting their mirth, O’er vale and o’er upland I breathe a sad lay, For the fair and the lovely all passing away. My hours are ne’er stolen by sorrow or sleep, When weary of forests I fly to the deep; My course is _to-day_ amid sunshine and bloom, _To-morrow_, it may be with tempests and gloom; But though I ne’er linger, I’m joyous and free, If sighing ’mid blossoms, or sweeping the sea, For my way is right on through the long-coming years, And I turn not aside for your hopes or your fears. * * * * * ECHO. BY JOHN S. MOORE. Sweet Echo, dweller in cavernous mountains, Amid dark forests by abounding fountains, Much loved that self-adoring boy, The fair son of Cephisus, And chased his footsteps with consuming joy, Crying aloud “Narcissus!” But vain were all her cries and all her wooing; The youth replied not to the nymph pursuing, But fled from her desiring gaze, Filling her heart with anguish; Then, like a flower scorched by the sun’s hot rays, Echo began to languish. Afar, in deepest solitudes reclining, She hid her from the woodland maids, repining, Wasting the day with idle plaint— With unavailing sorrow, And every day her beauty grew more faint, More pale by every morrow. At last, out-worn by grief and passion violent, Sweet Echo died within her grottoes silent, Leaving her story unto fame.— Her voice will never perish; The prattling rocks still rattle with her name, The hills her memory cherish. * * * * * SONNET TO ——. WRITTEN AFTER A MIDNIGHT WALK. BY R. H. BACON. An arrow tipped with solar fire should write Upon the tablet of a cloudless sky Its burning characters, so that the bright And glowing fancies of my soul could lie Faintly portrayed before thee, were the high, Unwonted thoughts that thrill my wondering heart Fitly expressed. Alas! I have no art To body forth emotion; nor to lay Upon the edge of words a fringe of fire: Day turns to night, and night gives place to day. While I am baffled in my vain desire! Yet, haunted by the memory of the moon And mystic stars that walk night’s gentle noon, I string again my long-neglected lyre. * * * * * THE ISLETS OF THE GULF;