40 THE SYLPH OF AUTUMN. And fruits of various hue, With these I may not urge my suit, Nor may it fit my sober mood To sing of sweetly murmuring flood, That mock the bow of heaven. But, know, 'twas mine the secret power In bleak November's reign: 'Twas I the spell around thee cast, When thou didst hear the hollow blast In murmurs tell of pleasures past, And led thee, when the storm was o'er, To hear the sullen ocean roar, By dreadful calm opprest; Which, still, though not a breeze was there, "Twas I, when thou, subdued by wo, Didst watch the leaves descending slow To each a moral gave; And as they moved in mournful train, With rustling sound, along the plain, Taught them to sing a seraph's strain Of peace within the grave. 42 THE SYLPH OF AUTUMN. And then, upraised thy streaming eye, In pomp of evening cloud; That, while with varying form it rolled, And, last, as sunk the setting sun, Oh, then with what aspiring gaze And think how wondrous, how sublime And live, beyond the reach of Time, Child of Eternity! THE OLD NORTH BURIAL GROUND. BY WILLIAM B. TAPPAN. I STAND where I have stood before in boyhood's sunny prime, The same yet not the same, but one who wears the touch of Time; And gaze around on what was then familiar to the eye, But whose inconstant features tell that years have jour neyed by, Since o'er this venerable ground a truant child I played, And chased the bee and plucked the flower, where ancient dust is laid: And hearkened, in my wondering mood, when tolled the passing bell, And started at the coffin's cry, as clods upon it fell. These mossy tombs I recollect, the same o'er which I pored, The same these rhymes and texts, with which my memory was stored; These humble tokens, too, that lean, and tell where resting bones Are hidden, though their date and name have perished from the stones. here! What hearts have ached, what eyes have given this con scious earth the tear How many friends, whose welcome cheered their now deserted doors, Have, since my last sojourning, swelled these melancholy stores! Yon spot, where in the sunset ray a single white stone gleams, I've visited, I cannot tell how often in my dreams, |