NIGHT IN THE WOODS.

BY EPHRAIM PEABODY.

"Through the openings in the leafy vaults looked down the

stars from far above this world."

MARY'S JOURNEY.

The unfathomable cope of heaven!
The deep and silent sky!

Through the narrow forest opening,
Looks down its peaceful eye.

The tranquil stars pass o'er me one by one-
The silver clouds rise up-float o'er-are gone.

The forest pines which circle round

Like dark towers at my side,

But show the depths of the dim vault,

Where the holy stars abide.

Unsounded void! yet deepening whilst 1 gaze,

Till the eye swims, that through thy clear deep strays.

NIGHT IN THE WOODS.

The night is hushed like sleep ;-the roar
Of the great wilderness is still;

The breeze is sleeping midst its leaves,

The brook beneath its hill;

On branch and leaf and in their gloomy shade,
The silence of eternity is laid.

The moving heavens !-the Spirit's power
In glory bids them roll;

The music of the many spheres

'Tis sounding through the soul! The Vast the Beautiful!-in mystery, Deep in the soul's abyss unseen they lie.

Sea-heavens-ye settled hills that lift
Your brows into the blue,

Like altars reared to God-the soul

Is mightier than you,

Yea, gives you all your glory-gives the light,
Which lifts you up from nothingness and night,

Oh God! who breathed into the soul

A power from thine own power,

Teach me to know the uncounted worth

Of this celestial dower :

Oh I ne'er defile with earth and sense may

This image of thine own Omnipotence.

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AUTUMN.

BY ISAAC M'LELLAN, JR.

'Round Autumn's mouldering urn, Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale, When nightfall shades the quiet vale,

And stars in beauty burn.'-LONGFELLOW.

Now in the fading woods, the Autumn blast
Chants its old hymn,—a melancholy sound!
And look! the yellow leaves are dropping fast,
And earth looks bleak and desolate around.

The flowers have lost their glorious scent and bloom, And shiver now as flies the tempest by;

To some far clime hath flown the wild bird's plume, Το greener woods, and some serener sky.

AUTUMN.

The reaper's sheaf hath now grown white and thin;
The bearded wheat, and golden ear of corn,
The jocund husbandmen have gathered in;

And from the fields the seedy hay is borne.

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The orchards all have showered their treasures down, In many a pile of crimson and of gold;

There will be wealth of sparkling juice to crown

The foamy glass when the Year's death is knolled.

Still are these barren-hills! save when the tree

Falls 'neath the far-off woodman's measured stroke; Or when the squirrel chatters noisily,

Or carrion crow screams from the leafless oak.

Methinks there's something sad in thy decay,
Oh! merry-hearted Autumn! like a man
Whose head is in his prime of years turned gray,
The red cheek in a little hour made wan!

Poet! doth no regret o'ercast thy dream,
To see the good old Autumn thus depart?
And gloom fast darkening Summer's golden gleam,
E'en as afflictions change the cheerful heart.

E'en as I follow to his lowly bed,

The ashes of some kind, and well-beloved friend, So with a saddened eye and mournful tread,

I see thee, Autumn! to oblivion tend.

Yet beautiful are thy last fleeting days,

When glows the hectic on thy dying cheek;

When leaves are red, clouds bright, and hangs the haze

In many a colored fold, of gaudy streak.

I hear the voice of Autumn! the deep dirge
Hymned plaintively within his ruined hall,
Its solemn sound comes like the beating surge,
Or thunder of the distant water-fall!