THE WINDS OF AUTUMN.

Whilst from the most tempestuous nooks,
The chillest blasts our peace invade,

And by great rains our smallest brooks

Are almost navigable made.

COTTON, Eclogue.

Up, bird of the sky, from the humble furrow! -cleave the blue heights skyward to the gate of heaven; and pour on the earth below gushes of genuine melody to charm all hearts, until thy fluttering form has dwindled to a mere speck, and become lost to the sight! The call is vain. Thine hours of heart-felt melody have fled. Guided by an unerring hand, thou hast sought a more favourable locality. The smiling, dove-eyed Spring, too, has blushed into the richness and merged into the maturity of Summer. Summer, like a bright, angelic spirit who has paid a transient visit to "this dim spot which men call earth," overshadowing the land

with the wings of celestial glory-Summer, having fulfilled her own beneficent purposes, has taken wing and fled to other and far-off regions, casting below her once-gorgeous mantle which has been caught by sober and matronlike Autumn-a mantle of many colours, but assuming, as dies the dolphin, hue after hue and tint after tint, until the robe of death is spread over the land, to be followed by the chill winding-sheet of unsullied stainless snow. It is well that it should be so.

and a time for joy.

There is a time for sorrow

Good springs from both.

"How many things by season season'd are

To their right praise and true perfection!"

There is something peculiarly mournful in the Winds of Autumn. Many circumstances contribute to give to these heralds of the season, their peculiar characteristic. The countless flowers of the late enamelled meadows and of the once fragrant woods, have shrunk within themselves and are sleeping the sleep of death. The rich, full chorus of the sylvan sanctuary has died away into a low and distant murmur. The rich and waving sea of summer foliage has lost its hues of varied green; and, instead of that gently undulating motion which lately prevailed, or that unruffled calmness which slept beneath

the warmth and brilliancy of a cloudless summer sun, the Winds of Autumn, hurrying onwards with sudden, revengeful gusts, lash the boughs into fury with a devastating mournful roar. It is true, that the tints of Autumn presented around, are far more varied and more striking in their character than any during the effulgence of Summer. The maple has now put on its robe of saffron and gold. The beech, laying aside its bright green summer robe, has

assumed the sober mantle of russet. The ash has shaken her flowing tresses, and they are falling at the touch of even the slightest breath. The oak is stern and stedfast amid all change, as if extremely loath to part with its summer robe; while the elm, the chesnut, and the sycamore have each assumed its peculiar dress, soon, however, to be cast aside for that of the night of leafless winter. But the yew, the holly, the laurel, and the numerous tribe of evergreens, remain unchanged and inflexible amid a scene where all else is changeful and fleeting. These contribute to give a pleasant variety of hues to the thick woods, the snug copses, and the belts of plantings. Along the lines of the hedge-rows the thorn trees are rich with crimson haws; and the wild rose has hung her vermillion ear-drops on

every fragile branch. The richly varied aspect thus presented may be pleasant to the eye, but it cannot fail to awaken associations which partake more of sorrow than of joy-more of sad and desponding thoughts, than of that lightness and joyousness of heart which are created during the rich promise of Spring or the full splendour of Summer, as indicative of the approach of days of rayless gloom and tearful sorrow, and nights of hurrying storm and starless darkness.

It is, too, at this season of the year that a mournful feeling steals over the mind and disposes it to descend more deeply within the well of thought, unknown and unseen, and to ponder over the days that are past and well as gone, as to pierce through the mist and dimness of the future, checking the exuberance of fancy, stripping the gaudy robes from the heart's idols, and chaining the imagination down to cold realities-peace and gladness vanished-time wasted or ill applied-affections blighted or lost in the cold, cold grave-and joy, which once fluttered in the sweet Summer breeze, withered as a leaf and whirled to the earth. It is the mournful Winds of Autumn that cause the widow's heart to vibrate with the painful recollections of the past, as she sits by her lonely hearth, in her

solitary and voiceless dwelling; turning over the volume of affection leaf after leaf-pondering over the bright day of marriage, when the heart possessed all the wealth of the wide world, a mine of pure affection, and a garner of rich hope-and over the succeeding days of peace, and content, and happiness, before the storm of affliction had dimmed the far horizon and the stern destroyer had advanced one footstep, or levelled one fatal blow-thinking of the bed of suffering, and the writhings of pain, and the contortions of torture; and the pale rushlight that made the scene more ghastly; the withdrawn curtains, and the bent look of anxiety and suspense; and the sweat of death, and the last struggle with the grim, bony conqueror; and the lifeless corpse, so pale, and lone, and still, and so mute; the last look, and the grave, and the head-stone in the village church-yard, whither her own foot-steps are slowly, but surely tending. And it is the mournful Winds of Autumn that induce the heart to call home the thoughts, which, like the happy summer birds, took wing and hovered over all pleasant places, and lingered around the spots where the beam of pleasure flashed like the bright waters, and the voice of mirth, and the shout of free