There the light breezes lie at rest, Soft pillowed on the glassy deep; Pale cliffs look on the waters' breast, And watch their silent sleep. There the wild swan with plumed and glossy wing Sits lone and still beside the bubbling spring. And far within, in murmurs heard, Comes, with the wind's low whispers there, The music of the mounting bird, Skimming the clear bright air. The sportive brook, with free and silvery tide, Comes wildly dancing from the green hill side. The sun there sheds his noontide beam On oak-crowned hill and leafy bowers; And gaily by the shaded stream Spring forth the forest flowers. The fountain flings aloft its showery spray, With rainbows decked, that mock the hues of day. And when the dewy morning breaks, A thousand tones of rapture swell; A thrill of life and motion wakes Through hill, and plain, and dell. The wild bird trills his song--and from the wood The red deer bounds to drink beside the flood. There, when the sun sets on the sea, And gilds the forest's waving crown, Strains of immortal harmony To those sweet shades come down. Bright and mysterious forms that green shore throng, And pour in evening's ear their charmed song. E'en on this cold and cheerless shore, While all is dark and quiet near, The huntsman, when his toils are o'er, That melody may hear. And see, faint gleaming o'er the waters' foam, The glories of that isle, his future home. INDIAN SUMMER--1828. BY C. F. HOFFMAN. Light as love's smiles the silvery mist at morn Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river; The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne, As high in air she carols, faintly quiver; The weeping birch, like banners idly waving, Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving; Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver; The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping, And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping. I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ere The blasts of Winter chase the varied dyes That gaily deck the slow-declining year; I love the splendour of thy sunset skies, The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf, Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief; I love the note of each wild bird that flies, As on the wind she pours her parting lay, And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away. Oh, Nature! still I fondly turn to thee With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;-- Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be, Toward thee I still the same devotion bear; To thee--to thee--though health and hope no more Life's wasted verdure may to me restore-- I still can, child-like, come as when in prayer I bowed my head upon a mother's knee, And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.