A DAY IN AUTUMN.

HERE was not, on that day, a speck to stain
The azure heaven; the blessed Sun, alone,
In unapproachable divinity,

Career'd, rejoicing in his fields of light.

How beautiful, beneath the bright blue sky,
The billows heave! one glowing green expanse,
Save where along the bending line of shore
Such hue is thrown, as when the peacock's neck
Assumes its proudest tint of amethyst,
Embath'd in emerald glory. All the flocks

Of Ocean are abroad: like floating foam,
The sea-gulls rise and fall upon the waves;
With long protruded neck the cormorants
Wing their far flight aloft; and round and round
The plovers wheel, and give their note of joy.
It was a day that sent into the heart

A Summer feeling: even the insect swarms
From their dark nooks and coverts issued forth,
To sport through one day of existence more;
The solitary primrose on the bank

Seem'd now as though it had no cause to mourn
Its bleak autumnal birth; the Rocks and Shores,
The Forest, and the everlasting Hills,

Smiled in that joyful Sunshine, they partook
The universal blessing.

SOUTHEY.

TRAIGHT to the meadow then he whistling goes;
With well-known halloo calls his lazy cows:
Down the rich pasture heedlessly they graze,
Or hear the summons with an idle gaze;
For well they know the cow-yard yields no more

Its tempting fragrance, nor its wintry store.
Reluctance marks their steps, sedate and slow;
The right of conquest all the law they know;
The strong press on, the weak by turns succeed,
And one superior always takes the lead;
Is ever foremost, wheresoe'er they stray;
Allow'd precedence, undisputed sway;
With jealous pride her station is maintain'd,
For many a broil that post of honour gain'd.

BLOOMFIELD.

WOODLAND SCENERY.

H

IS task had Giles, in fields remote from home;
Oft has he wish'd the rosy morn to come :
And when at day-break summon'd from his bed,
Light as the lark that carol'd o'er his head;

His sandy way, deep-worn by hasty showers,
O'er-arch'd with oaks that form'd fantastic bowers,
Waving aloft their towering branches proud,
In borrow'd tinges from the eastern cloud,
(When inspiration, pure as ever flow'd,
And genuine transport in his bosom glow'd,)
His own shrill matin join'd the various notes
Of Nature's music, from a thousand throats :
The blackbird strove with emulation sweet,
And echo answer'd from her close retreat;
The sporting white-throat on some twig's end borne,
Pour'd hymns to freedom and the rising morn ;
Stopp'd in her song, perchance, the starting thrush
Shook a white shower from the black-thorn bush,
Where dewdrops thick as early blossoms hung,
And trembled as the minstrel sweetly sung :
Across his path, in either grove to hide,
The timid rabbit scouted by his side;

Or bold cock pheasant stalk'd along the road,
Whose gold and purple tints alternate glow'd.

BLOOMFIELD.

EVENING.

HAT time the Sun has from the West withdrawn
The various hues, that grac'd his cloudy fall—
When the recumbent ruminating fold

Greets, with peculiar odour, the fond sense

Of the lone wanderer-when the recent leaf
Of clover 'gins to sleep, and, white with dew,
Closes its tender triple-finger'd palm,
Till morning dawn afresh-when the moon wears
Nor hood, nor veil, nor looks with cold regard
Through the fine lawn of intervening cloud,
But lifts a fair round visage o'er the vale,
And smiles affection, which no bard can sing,
No painter with poetic pencil paint-

When the dark cloud, that couches in the West,
Seems to imbibe the last pale beam of eve,
Absorbing in its dun and gloomy folds
The feeble residue of dying day-

Is it not pleasure, with unbended mind,

To muse within and meditate abroad,

While either hand in the warm bosom sleeps,

And either foot falls feebly on the floor,

And shaven sward, or stone that paves the path
Of village footway winding to the church?
'Twere passing pleasure, if to man alone.
That hour were grateful: but with like desire

The dusky holiday of thickening night,

Enjoys the chuckling partridge, the still mouse,
The rabbit foraging, the feeding hare,

The nightingale that warbles from the thorn,
And twilight-loving solitary owl,

That skims the meadows, hovers, drops her prey,
Seizes, and screeching to the tower returns.

Her woolly little ones there hiss on high,

And there who will, may seek them, but who dares

Must 'bid the keen magnanimous rebuff

Of irritated love, and quick descend,

By the maternal talon not in vain

Insulted, baffled, scar'd, and put to flight.

HURDIS.

B

NOONTIDE.

ENEATH a shivering canopy reclin'd,

Of aspen leaves that wave without a wind,

I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir

The spiry cones that tremble on the fir;

Or wander 'mid the dark-green fields of broom,
When peers in scatter'd tufts the yellow bloom :
Or trace the path with tangling furze o'er-run,
When bursting seed-bells crackle in the sun,
And pittering grasshoppers, confus'dly shrill,
Pipe giddily along the glowing hill:
Sweet grasshopper, who lov'st at noon to lie,
Serenely in the green-ribb'd clover's eye,
To sun thy filmy wings and emerald vest,
Unseen thy form and undisturb'd thy rest;
Oft have I listening mus'd the sultry day,
And wonder'd what thy chirping song might say,
When nought was heard along the blossom'd lea,
To join thy music, save the listless bee.

DR. LEYDEN.