Light as love's smiles the silvery mist at morn Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river; The blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne, As high in air she carols, faintly quiver; The weeping birch, like banners idly waving, Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving; Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver; The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping, And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping.
I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery ere The blasts of Winter chase the varied dyes That gaily deck the slow-declining year; I love the splendour of thy sunset skies, The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf, Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief; I love the note of each wild bird that flies, As on the wind she pours her parting lay, And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.
Oh, Nature! still I fondly turn to thee With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;— Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be, Toward thee I still the same devotion bear; To thee—to thee—though health and hope no more Life's wasted verdure may to me restore— I still can, child-like, come as when in prayer I bowed my head upon a mother's knee, And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.
GREECE—1832.
BY J. G. BROOKS.
Land of the brave! where lie inurned The shrouded forms of mortal clay, In whom the fire of valour burned, And blazed upon the battle's fray: Land, where the gallant Spartan few Bled at Thermopylæ of yore, When death his purple garment threw On Helle's consecrated shore!
Land of the Muse! within thy bowers Her soul entrancing echoes rung, While on their course the rapid hours Paused at the melody she sung— Till every grove and every hill, And every stream that flowed along, From morn to night repeated still The winning harmony of song.
Land of dead heroes! living slaves! Shall glory gild thy clime no more? Her banner float above thy waves Where proudly it hath swept before? Hath not remembrance then a charm To break the fetters and the chain, To bid thy children nerve the arm, And strike for freedom once again?
No! coward souls! the light which shone On Leuctra's war-empurpled day, The light which beamed on Marathon Hath lost its splendour, ceased to play; And thou art but a shadow now, With helmet shattered—spear in rust— Thy honour but a dream—and thou Despised—degraded in the dust!