IN ANTICIPATION OF AUTUMN.

But now the Summer hastens to its close,

And soon will Song a different aspect wear,

Sweeping terrific, clad in ghostly snows,

And lit by the flash of the Boreal glare,

Or, but a poet in his easy chair;

And her most pleasing aspect now beguiles

What time is hers with deft, endearing air:

With gorgeous gold she decks her garments, whiles

Her melancholy face with Indian Summer smiles.

Thy very smile sends sadness to my heart.

Farewell! sweet love, the happy hour is o'er:

Too well I knew that we again must part.

Her garments trail the fond, reluctant floor.

But I shall ne'er forget the dress she wore,

Her looks, her words, the pleasing song she sung —

‘ Tis melody will charm me more and more,

‘ Tis music that will keep my spirit young,

‘ Tis joyance in my soul, though jarring on my tongue.

I've hummed the music after thee as well

As changing tones of youth allowed, and fear,

And vexing sprites that choke the upward swell.

But yet, perchance, some bosom it may cheer,

By recollection making thee more dear

To those who've drunk thy music at its spring,

To some, mayhap, who never learned to hear,—

Alas! poor, wretched souls!— its sound may bring

Some semblance of thy strain, some wish to hear thee sing.

What though I have expounded nothing new,

And traced, I trow, unworthily the old?

Song is no mystic science.— Men may do

Strange things in other spheres, and may unfold

Secrets unthought, tell tales before untold;

But what thou wilt, the bard; nor less, nor more.

And to the mind informed in Nature's mould

Thou has revealed thyself — the same of yore,

The same to-day thou art, and shalt be evermore.

Let them who will, content themselves to sing

In trifling pageantry and gilt array,

To pluck the song-beads from the shimmering string

That skirts thy robe. But such my soul doth sway

As makes me hang upon thy breast and say

“I love thee!” — as a mistress?— then mine own;

Blindly and recklessly?— some future day,

Mine eye, from thine clearer and stronger grown,

May thrid the straggling stars and search the deepening dawn.

O, make my soul an argosy of song,

Tranquilly floating on a sea of peace,

As with her rowers beautiful and strong

Some trireme bears among the Isles of Greece

With music-muffled oars! Give safe release

From murky moorings, storms, and rocks that jar,

And let its pearls in purity increase,

Until with singing sails it cross the bar

To melt in golden waves with gems of many a star!