AUTUMN.

He sat among the yellowing trees,
Low winds to beech and oak did call,
Murmuring of Nature's old decrees
And yearly tribute to the Fall.
Now is there silence all around,
And you may hear the branches cast
Their offerings on the fragrant ground,
'Tis here an acorn, there a mast.
And thus in life's autumnal grove,
At intervals, with bated breath,
We hear the ripe ones whom we love
Drop to the quiet home of death.

JUSTISSIMA TELLUS.

Dear mother Earth, no usurer thou,
Since all who heed thy liberal law,
For every dint of spade or plough
On vale or heath or mountain brow,
A full and punctual interest draw.
And still thy richest sheaves are they
Which, in the ripeness of the years,
The angel-reapers bear away
To glory and eternal day,
When nought of thee but dust appears.
Thrice happy they who trace the line
In every quickening field and grove
Of heaven's munificent design,
The recompense of life divine
For toiling days of faithful love.

THE FLINTY FIELD.