THE SEPTEMBER FROST.

DAVID MACBETH MOIR. FROM THE LEGEND OF GENE

VIEVE, WITH OTHER TALES AND POEMS; BY DELTA."

1825.

WITHIN a wood I lay reclined,

Upon a dull September day, And listen'd to the hollow wind,

That shook the frail leaves from the spray.

I thought me of its summer pride,

And how the sod was gemm'd with flowers, And how the river's azure tide

Was overarch'd with leafy bowers. And how the small birds caroll'd gay, And lattice-work the sunshine made,

When last, upon a summer day,

I stray'd beneath that woodland shade.

And now!-it was a startling thought,
And flash'd like lightning o'er the mind,-
That like the leaves we pass to nought,
Nor, parting, leave a track behind!

Go -trace the church-yard's hallow'd mound, And, as among the tombs ye tread,

Read, on the pedestals around,

Memorials of the vanish'd dead.

They lived like us-they breathed like us

Like us, they loved, and smiled, and wept; But soon their hour arriving, thus

From earth like autumn leaves were swept.

Who, living, care for them?-not one!
To earth are theirs dissever'd claims;
To new inheritors have gone

Their habitations, and their names!
Think on our childhood-where are they,
The beings that begirt us then?
The Lion Death hath dragged away
By turns, the victim to his den!
And springing round, like vernal flowers,
Another race with vigour burns,

To bloom awhile, for years or hours,-
And then to perish in their turns!

Then be this wintry grove to me
An emblem of our mortal state;
And from each lone and leafless tree,
So wither'd, wild, and desolate,

This moral lesson let me draw,

That earthly means are vain to fly

Great Nature's universal law,

And that we all must come to die!

However varied, these alone

Abide the lofty and the less,Remembrance, and a sculptured stone, A green grave and forgetfulness.

A LOVER'S BALLAD.

66

MARIA JANE JEWSBURY. FROM THE AMULET," 1831.

SHE'S in my heart, she's in my thoughts,
At midnight, morn, and noon;
December's snow beholds her there,
And there the rose of June.

I never breathe her lovely name
When wine and mirth go round,
But, oh, the gentle moonlight air
Knows well the silver sound!

I care not if a thousand hear
When other maids I praise;
I would not have my brother by,
When upon her I gaze.

The dew were from the lily gone,

The gold had lost its shine,
If any but my love herself

Could hear me call her mine!

THE FORGOTTEN ONE.

LETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON.

FROM 'THE KEEPSAKE,"

1831.

I HAVE no early flowers to fling
O'er thy yet earlier grave;
O'er it the morning lark may sing,
By it the bright rose wave;
The very night-dew disappears
Too soon, as if it spared its tears.

Thou art forgotten !-thou, whose feet
Were listen'd for like song!

They used to call thy voice so sweet-
It did not haunt them long.

Thou, with thy fond and fairy mirth-
How could they bear their lonely hearth!

There is no picture to recall

Thy glad and open brow;
No profiled outline on the wall

Seems like thy shadow now;
They have not even kept to wear
One ringlet of thy golden hair.

When here we shelter'd last appears
But just like yesterday;

It startles me to think that years

Since then are past away:

The old oak tree that was our tent,

No leaf seems changed, no bough seems rent.

A shower in June-a summer shower,

Drove us beneath the shade;

A beautiful and greenwood bower
The spreading branches made:

The rain-drops shine upon the bough,
The passing rain-but where art thou?

But I forget how many showers
Have wash'd this good oak tree,
The winter and the summer hours,
Since I stood here with thee:
And I forget how chance a thought
Thy memory to my heart has brought.

I talk of friends who once have wept,
As if they still should weep;
I speak of grief that long has slept,
As if it could not sleep:

I mourn o'er cold forgetfulness—
Have I, myself, forgotten less?

I've mingled with the young and fair,
Nor thought how there was laid
One fair and young as any there,

In silence and in shade:

How could I see a sweet mouth shine

With smiles, and not remember thine?