The scene was changed. It was Autumn's hour;
A frost had discoloured the summer bower;
The blast wailed sad 'midst the cankered leaves,
The reaper stood musing by gathered sheaves;
The mellow pomp of the rainbow woods
Was stirred by the sound of the rising floods;
And I knew by the cloud-by the wild wind's strain,
That Winter drew near with his storms again!

I stood by the Ocean; its waters rolled

In their changeful beauty of sapphire and gold;
And Day looked down with its radiant smiles,

Where the blue waves danced round a thousand isles;

The ships went forth on the trackless seas,
Their white wings played in the joyous breeze;

Their prows rushed on midst the parted foam,
While the wanderer was wrapt in a dream of Home!

The mountain arose with its lofty brow,

While its shadow lay sleeping in vales below;
The mist like a garland of glory lay,

Where its proud heights soared in the air away;
The eagle was there on his tireless wing,
And his shriek went up like an offering;
And he seemed, in his sunward flight, to raise
A chant of thanksgiving-a hymn of praise!

I looked on the arch of the midnight skies,
With its blue and unsearchable mysteries:
The Moon, midst an eloquent multitude
Of unnumbered stars, her career pursued:
A charm of sleep on the city fell,

All sounds lay hushed in that brooding spell;
By babbling brooks were the buds at rest,
And the wild-bird dreamed on his downy nest.

I stood where the deepening tempest passed;
The strong trees groaned in the sounding blast;
The murmuring deep with its wrecks rolled on;
The clouds o'ershadowed the mighty sun:

THE MERRIMACK.

The low reeds bent by the streamlet's side,
And hills to the thunder-peal replied;

The lightning burst forth on its fearful way,
While the heavens were lit in its red array!

And hath MAN the power, with his pride and his skill
To arouse all Nature with storms at will?
Hath he power to colour the summer cloud-
To allay the tempest when the hills are bowed?
Can he waken the Spring with her festal wreath?
Can the sun grow dim by his lightest breath?
Will he come again, when death's vale is trod?
Who then shall dare murmur "There is no God!"

THE MERRIMACK.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

STREAM of my fathers! sweetly still

The sunset rays thy valley fill;

Poured slantwise down the long defile,

Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile.
I see the winding Powow fold

The

green hill in its belt of gold,

And following down its wavy line,
Its sparkling waters blend with thine.

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There's not a tree upon thy side,
Nor rock, which thy returning tide
As yet hath left abrupt and stark
Above thy evening water-mark;
No calm cove with its rocky hem,
No isle whose emerald swells begem
Thy broad, smooth current; not a sail
Bowed to the freshening ocean gale;
No small boat with its busy oars,
Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores;
Nor farm-house with its maple shade,
Or rigid poplar colonnade,

But lies distinct and full in sight,

Beneath this gush of sunset light.

THE MERRIMACK.

Centuries ago, that harbour-bar,
Stretching its length of foam afar,

And Salisbury's beach of shining sand,

And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand,
Saw the adventurer's tiny sail

Flit, stooping from the eastern gale;

And o'er these woods and waters broke
The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak,

As brightly on the voyager's eye,
Weary of forest, sea, and sky,

Breaking the dull continuous wood,

The Merrimack rolled down his flood;
Mingling that clear pellucid brook

Which channels vast Agioochook

When spring-time's sun and shower unlock
The frozen fountains of the rock,

And more abundant waters given

From that pure lake, 'The Smile of Heaven,'
Tributes from vale and mountain side-

With ocean's dark, eternal tide!

On yonder rocky cape, which braves
The stormy challenge of the waves,
Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood,
The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood,
Planting upon the topmost crag

The staff of England's battle-flag;

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