ISAAC M'LELLAN. Her last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloom In the last days of autumn, when the corn The bearded wheat in sheaves, then peals abroad Lone whip-poor-will, There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant Thy hollow dirge like some recluse who takes His lodging in the wilderness of woods, And lifts his anthem when the world is still : And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews To the red roses and the herbs, doth find No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls. I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush And the green, roving linnet are at rest, And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased Their noisy notes, and folded up their wings. Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines The forest's blacken'd roots, and whose green marge Is seldom visited by human foot, The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom, Do fear the echo of thine angry cry. How bright thy savage eye! Thou lookest down And seest the shining fishes as they glide; And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak And now, wouldst thou, O man, delight the ear ISAAC M'LELLAN. THE FIELDS OF WAR. THEY rise, by stream, and yellow shore, From many a woody moss-grown mound, As when of old they caught the sound, To guard their native land. Hark! to the clanging horn- The serried files, the plumed troop On Bunker, at the dead of night, The onset, - the retreat! And, down the banks of Brandywine, Yorktown and Trenton blaze once more; The snows of Valley-Forge grow red, 'Tis o'er; the battle-shout has died By ocean, stream, and mountain-side; And the bright harvest, far and wide, Waves o'er the blood-drenched field. The rank grass o'er it greenly grows And oft, the upturning shares disclose The buried arms and bones of those Who fell, but would not yield! Time's rolling chariot hath effaced And the last relics of the brave Are sunken to oblivion's grave. ISAAC M'LELLAN. AUTUMN. 'Round Autumn's mouldering urn, Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale, When nightfall shades the quiet vale, The stars in beauty burn.-LONGFELLOW. Now, in the fading woods, the Autumn blast 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, To greener woods, and some serener sky. The reaper's sheaf hath now grown white and thin; The orchards all have showered their treasures down, Silent are these barren-hills! save when the tree Or carrion crow screams from the leafless oak. |