The Autumn promised, and he keeps His word unto the meadow-rose. The pure, bright lightnings herald Spring, Serene and glad the fresh earth shows. The rain has quenched her children's thirst, Her cheeks, but now so cold and dry, Are soft and fair, a laughing face; With clouds of purple shines the sky, Though filled with light, yet veiled with haze. Hark! hark! the turtle's mocking note Outsings the valley-pigeon's lays. Her wings are gemmed, and from her throat, When the clear sun gleams back again, It seems to me as though she wore About her neck a jewelled chain. Say, wilt thou darken such a light, Wilt drag the clouds from heaven's height? Although thy heart with anger swell, Yet firm as marble mine doth dwell. Therein no fear thy wrath begets. It is not shaken by thy threats. Yea, hurl thy darts, thy weapons wield, The strength of youth is still my shield. My winged steed toward the heights doth bound, The dust whiffs upward from the ground; My song is scanty, dost thou deem Thine eloquence a mighty stream? Only the blameless offering. Not the profusion man may bring, Prevaileth with our Lord and King. The long days out of minutes grow, And out of months the years arise, Wilt thou be master of the wise, Then learn the hidden stream to know, That from the inmost heart doth flow. FRAGMENT. My friend spoke with insinuating tongue: "Drink wine, and thy flesh shall be made whole. Look how it hisses in the leathern bottle like a captured serpent." Oh fool! can the sun be forged into a cask stopped with earthly bungs. I know not that the power of wine has ever overmastered my sorrows; for these mighty giants I have found as yet no resting-place. STANZAS. "With tears thy grief thou dost bemoan, Tears that would melt the hardest stone, Oh, wherefore sing'st thou not the vine? Why chant'st thou not the praise of wine? It chases pain with cunning art, The craven slinks from out thy heart." But I: Poor fools the wine may cheat, Lull them with lying visions sweet. Upon the wings of storms may bear The heavy burden of their care. The father's heart may harden so, He feeleth not his own child's woe. No ocean is the cup, no sea, To drown my broad, deep misery. It grows so rank, you cut it all, The aftermath springs just as tall. My heart and flesh are worn away, Mine eyes are darkened from the day. The lovely morning-red behold Wave to the breeze her flag of gold. The hosts of stars above the world, Like banners vanishing are furled. The dew shines bright; I bide forlorn, And shudder with the chill of morn. WINE AND GRIEF.