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But brown comes the autumn, and sear grows Ah ! on Thanksgiving Day, when from East an the corn,
from West, And the woods like a rainbow are dressed, From North and from South come the pilgrim And but for the cock and the noontide horn
and guest, Old Time would be tempted to rest.
When the gray-haired New-Englander secs round The humming bec fans off a shower of gold
his board From the mullein's long rod as it sways,
The old broken links of affection restored, And dry grow the leaves which protecting infold When the care-wcaricd man secks his mother once The ears of the well-ripened maize !
more, At length Indian Summer, the lovely, doth come,
| And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled
before, With its blue frosty nights, and days still,
What moistens thclip, and what brightens the eye? When distantly clear sounds the waterfall's hum,
What calls back the past like the rich pumpkinAnd the sun smokes ablaze on the hill ! A dim veil hangs over the landscape and flood,
• pie ? And the hills are all inellowed in haze,
0,— fruit loved of boyhood !- the old days reWhile fall, creeping on like a monk 'ncath his
When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts Plucks the thick-rustling wealth of the maize.
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, And the heavy wains creak to the barns large
° | Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! and gray, Where the treasure securely we hold,
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts
all in tune, Houscd safe from the tempest, dry - sheltered away,
Our chair a broad pumpkin, - our lantern the Onr blessing more precious than gold ! And long for this manna that springs from the
| Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her sod Shall we gratefully give Him the praise,
team ! The source of all bounty, our Father and God,
| Then thanks for thy present !-- none sweeter or Who sent us from heaven the maize!
better E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter ! Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine,
Brighter cycs never watched o'er its baking, than THE POTATO.
'thinc ! I's a careless potato, and care not a pin
And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to How into existence I came;
express, If they planted me drill-wise, or dibbled me in,
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less,
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, To me 't is exactly the same. Tlie bean and the pea may more loftily tower,
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine But I care not a button for them ;
grow, Defiance I nod with my beautiful flower
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky When the earth is hoed up to my stem.
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin-pie!
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.
WILLIAM W. FOSDICK.
HYMN TO THE FLOWERS. , Ox the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden | DAY-STARS ! that one your frownless eyes to twin
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine ladlen;
As a libation.
Throw from your chalices a sweet and holy And the sun of September melts down on his vincs. /
Incense on high.
ve bright mosaics ! that with storied beauty,
The floor of Nature's temple tessellate, What numerous emblems of instructive duty
Your forms create !
| Posthumous glories ! angel-like collection !
Upraised from seed or bulb interred in earth, Yo are to me a type of resurrection
And second birth.
'Neath cloistered boughs, each floral bell that Were I in churchless solitudes remaining, swingeth
Far from all voice of teachers and divines, And tolls its perfume on the passing air, My soul would find, in flowers of God's ordaining, Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth
Priests, sermons, shrines !
I will not have the mad Clytie,
Whose head is turned by the sun ; To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder,
The tulip is a courtly quean, Whosc quenchless lamps the sun and moon
Whom, therefore, I will shun; supply ;
The cowslip is a country wench,
The violet is a nun; —
But I will woo the dainty rose,
The queen of every one. Through the green aisles, or stretched upon the
The pea is but a wanton witch, sod,
In too much haste to wed,
And clasps her rings on every hand;
The wolfsbanc I should dread ;
Nor will I dreary rosemarye, ers,
That always mourns the dead ; Each cup a pulpit, every leaf a book,
But I will woo the dainty rose,
With her cheeks of tender red.
The lily is all in white, like a saint,
And so is no mate for me ; “Weep without woe, and blush without a And the daisy's cheek is tipped with a blush, crime,”
She is of such low degree; 0, may I deeply learn, and ne'er surrender
Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, Your loro sublime !
And the broom's betrothed to the bee ;
But I will plight with the dainty rose, “Thou wert not, Solomon, in all thy glory,
For fairest of all is she.
Are human flowers !".
FROM "HASSAN BEX KHALED." What a delightful lesson thou impartest
“Then took the generous host Of love to all !
| A basket filled with roses. Every guest Not useless are ye, flowers ! though made for Cried, "Give me roses !' and he thus addressed pleasure ;
His words to all : “He who exalts them most Blooming o'cr field and wave, by day and night,
In song, he only shall the roses wear.' From every source your sanction bids me treasure
Then sang a guest : The rose's cheeks are fair; Harmless delight.
It crowns the purple bowl, and no one knows
If the rose colors it, or it the rose.' Ephemeral sages ! what instructors hoary And sang another : ‘Crimson is its huc,
For such a world of thought could furnish scope? And on its breast the morning's crystal dew Each fading calyx a momento mori,
Is changed to rubics.' Then a third replied : Yct fount of liope.
It blushes in the sun's cnamored sight,
As a young virgin on her wedding night, l 'T IS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER.
'T is the last rose of summer, · *The rose,' I sang, ‘is either red or pale,
Left blooming alone; Like maidens whom the flame of passion burns,
All her lovely companions And love or jealousy controls, by turns.
Are faded and gone; Its buds are lips preparing for a kiss ;
No flower of her kindred, Its open flowers are like the blush of bliss
No rosebud, is nigh On lovers' cheeks; the thorns its armor are,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh !
I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! “The master from his open basket shook
To pine on the stem ; The roses on my head."
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them;
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie sccntless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered,
And fond ones are flown,
0, who would inhabit
This bleak world alone ? Still fairest found, where all are fair ;
THOMAS MOORE ("Irish Melodies "). For the sweet shade thou giv'st to me Ask what thou wilt, 't is granted thee." “Then," said the rose, with deepened glow, “On me another grace bestow."
TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. The spirit paused, in silent thought, — What grace was there that flower had not ? Tuou blossom, bright with autumn dew, "T was but a moment, – o'er the rose
And colored with the heaven's own blue, A veil of moss the angel throws,
That openest when the quiet light And, robed in nature's simplest weed,
Succeeds the keen and frosty night ; Could there a flower that rose exceed ?
KRUMMACHER. Thou comest not when violets lean
O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen,
Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.
Thou waitest late, and com'st alone,
When woods are bare and birds are flown, “TAE rose is fairest when 't is budding new,
And frosts and shortening days portend And hope is brightest when it dawns from The aged Year is near his end.
fears ; The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew, Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye
And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears. Look through its fringes to the sky, . O wilding rose, whom fancy this endears,
Blue -- blue -- as if that sky let fall
A flower from its cerulean wall.
The hour of death draw near to me, What time the sun arose on Vennachar's broad Hope, blossoming within my heart, wave.
May look to heaven as I depart.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Well, call the rose the queen of flowers,
And boast of that of Sharon, Of lilies like to marble cups,
And the golden rod of Aaron :
I care not how these flowers may be
Beloved of man and woman; The broom it is the flower for me,
That groweth on the common.
THE RHODORA. LINES ON DEING ASKED, WHINCE IS THE FLOWER? In May, when sca-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh rhoilora in the woods . Spreading its leasless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook : The purple petals fallen in the pool
Maile the black waters with their beauty gay, Ilere might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the slower that cheapens his array. Rhodora'! if thic sages ask thee why This charın is wasted on the marsh and sky, Dear, tell them, that if cyes were made for secing, Then beauty is its own excuse for being.
Why thon wert there, O rival of the rose ! I never thought to ask ; I never knew,
But in my simple ignorance suppose The selfsamc Power that brought me there brought you.
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.
O the broom, the yellow broom !
The ancient poet sung it, And dcar it is on sunmer days To lic at rest among it.
WELCOME, maids of honor!
You lo bring
In the Spring, And wait upon her.
She has virgins many,
Fresh and fair ;
Yet you are Morc sweet than any.
O TIE broom, the yellow broom!
The ancient poet sung it, And dear it is on summer days
To lie at rest among it.
Y' are the maiden Posies,
Anıl, so graced,
To be placed, 'Fore damask roses.
Yet though thus respected,
By and by
Ye do lie,
A nun demure, of lowly port;
Of all temptations ;
A little Cyclops, with one eye
The freak is over,
In fight to cover.
Thine odor, like a key,
A thought of sorrow frec.
Blows through that open door
And sadder than of yore.
And that beloved hour,
Like grapes above a bower. A spring goes singing through its rcedy grass ;
The lark sings o'er my head,
I would that I were dead ! -
From which I ever slec?
Let my vexed spirit be!
Hath searched, and stung to grief
Thy velvet leaf.
I see thee glittering from afar, —
In heaven above thee!
Who shall reprove thec!
Sweet Mower ! for by that name at last,
Sweet, silent creature !
WILLIAM W. STORY.
TO THE DAISY.
For thou art worthy,
Which love makes for thee!
Thoughts of thy raising;
While I am gazing.
Star of the mead ! sweet daughter of the day, Whose opening flower invites the morning ray, From the moist cheek and bosom's chilly fold To kiss the tears of eve, the dew-drops coll! Sweet daisy, flower of love, when birds are paired, 'Tis sweet to see thee, with thy bosom bared, Smiling in virgin innocence serene, Thy pearly crown above thy vest of green. The lark with sparkling cyc and rustling wing Rejoins his widowed mate in early spring, And as he prunes his plumes of russet huc, Swears on thy maiden blossom to be truc. Oft lave I watched thy closing buds at cve, Which for the parting sunbeams seemed to grieve; And when gay morning gilt the dew-bright plain, Seen them unclasp their folded leaves again ; Nor he who sung “ The daisy is so sweet!” | More dearly loved thy pearly form to greet,