SEPTEMBER. The meridian sun, Most sweetly smiling with attemper'd beams, Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged To find a single flower, but all in vain ; To hear, within the woodland's sunny side, Late full of music, nothing, save perhaps The sound of nutshells, by the squirrel dropp'd From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves. CARLOS WILCOX, 1794-1827. OCTOBER. A SONNET. Ay, thou art welcome, Heaven's delicious breath, When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny south! oh still delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. WILLIAM C. BRYANT. NOVEMBER. A SONNET. Yet one smile more, departing, distant sun! Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run, And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast, And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze Nods lonely, of the beauteous race the last. Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way, The cricket chirp upon the russet lea, And men delight to linger in thy ray. Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air. WILLIAM C. BRYANT. NOVEMBER. November's sky is chill and drear, So thick the tangled greenwood grew, No longer Autumn's glowing red No more, beneath the evening beam, As deeper moans the gathering blast. SIR WALTER SCOTT. NOVEMBER IN ENGLAND. No sun-no moon! No morn-no noon No dawn-no dusk-no proper time of day- No distance, looking blue No road- —no street-no t'other side the way No end to any "row" No indications where the "crescents" No top to any steeple No recognitions of familiar people No courtesies for showing 'em- No knowing 'em!— No traveling at all-no locomotion No inkling of the way--no notion 66 No go," by land or ocean No mail-no post No news from any foreign coast No park, no ring-no afternoon gentility- No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, T. HOOD. SONNET. NOVEMBER, 1792. There is strange music in the stirring wind If in such shades, beneath their murmuring, Who from these shades is gone, gone far away! SONG. DECEMBER. I. REV. WILLIAM L. BOWLES. A spirit haunts the year's last hours, For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh, In the walks; Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks of the moldering flowers; Heavily hangs the broad sun-flower O'er its grave, the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. II. The air is damp, and hushed, and close, My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves At the moist, rich smell of the rotting leaves, And the breath Of the fading edges of box beneath, and the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the broad sun-flower Over its grave, the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. ALFRED TENNYSON. |