AUTUMN.
The Year, an aged holy priest,
In gorgeous vestments clad,
Now celebrates the solemn feast
Of Autumn, sweet and sad.
The Sun, a contrite thurifer
After his garish days,
Through lessening arch, a wavy blur,
His burnish'd censer sways.
The Earth,—an altar all afire
Her hecatombs to claim,
Shoots upward many a golden spire
And crimson tongue of flame.
Like Jethro's shepherd, when he turn'd
In Midian's land to view
The bush that unconsuming burn'd,
I pause—and worship, too.
MY TWO BOYS.
To some the heavenly Father good
Has given raiment rich and fine,
And tables spread with dainty food,
And jewels rare that brightly shine.
To some He's given gold that buys
Immunity from petty care,
Freedom and leisure and the prize
Of pleasing books and pictures fair.
To some He's given wide domains
And high estate and tranquil ease,
And homes where all refinement reigns
And everything combines to please.