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The Death of the flowers.


THE melancholy days are come,

the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods,

and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove

the autumn leaves lie dead ; They rustle to the eddying gust, and

to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown,

and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow,

through all the gloomy day.


Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately

sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race of

flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of


The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November

rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again.

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier rose and the orchis died amid the summer

glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,



And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty

stood, Till fell the frost from the clear, cold heaven, as falls the

plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland,

glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such

days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter

home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the

trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrarce

late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no


And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair, meek blossom that grew up and faded by my

side : In the cold, moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast

the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so

brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of

ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.



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“ Know'st thou not me!” the

deep voice cried, “So long enjoyed, so oft misusedAlternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused ?

“Before my breath, like blazing flax,

Man and his marvels pass away;
And changing empires wane and wax,

Are founded, flourish, and decay.

“Redeem mine hours—the space is brief,

While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,
And measureless thy joy or grief,

When time and thou shalt part for ever!”

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[Sir WALTER Scott's fame is more associated with his inimitable Waverley novels than with his poetry, which, though extremely popular at the beginning of the present century, was eclipsed by the more fiery and vivid gleams of Byron's genius. Of his longer poems, the “ Lady of the Lake” is the most successful, both as regards design and execution. “Marmion,” “Rokeby,” and the “Lord of the Isles," all exhibit the dramatic power of description which rendered the author's prose works so long the delight of thousands of readers. Sir Walter was born at Edinburgh, in 1771, and died at Abbotsford, the estate where he had spent such happy and such anxious days, in 1832.)

The Skylark.

IRD of the wilderness,

Blythesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea!

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,

Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth;

Where on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying ?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,

Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing, away;

Then when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be;

Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place-
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!


(JAMES Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, was brought into notice as a poet chiefly through the kindness of Sir Walter Scott, whose interest had been excited by some of the earlier works of this uncultured child of genius. Unequal in merit though they certainly are, Hogg's works display sufficient beauty to entitle him to a high rank among our poets. Bonny Kilmeney” is, perhaps, his best poem, though the

Queen’s Wake” yielded him the greatest amount of fame.]




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VEN when the farmer, now secure of fear,
Sends in the swains to spoil the finished year,

Even when the reaper fills his greedy hands,
And binds the golden sheaves in brittle bands,

[To JOHN DRYDEN, a great poet and most unfortunate courtier, is due the credit of having produced, in " Absalom and Achitophel,” the best satirical poem in the English language. What a masterly description is that he gives of Shaftesbury—the

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