ST. MARTIN'S SUMMER.

Though flowers have perished at the touch

Of Frost, the early comer,

I hail the season loved so much,

The good St. Martin's summer.

O gracious morn, with rose-red dawn,

And thin moon curving o'er it!

The old year's darling, latest born,

More loved than all before it!

How flamed the sunrise through the pines!

How stretched the birchen shadows,

Braiding in long, wind-wavered lines

The westward sloping meadows!

The sweet day, opening as a flower

Unfolds its petals tender,

Renews for us at noontide's hour

The summer's tempered splendor.

The birds are hushed; alone the wind,

That through the woodland searches,

The red-oak's lingering leaves can find,

And yellow plumes of larches.

But still the balsam-breathing pine

Invites no thought of sorrow,

No hint of loss from air like wine

The earth's content can borrow.

The summer and the winter here

Midway a truce are holding,

A soft, consenting atmosphere

Their tents of peace enfolding.

The silent woods, the lonely hills,

Rise solemn in their gladness;

The quiet that the valley fills

Is scarcely joy or sadness.

How strange! The autumn yesterday

In winter's grasp seemed dying;

On whirling winds from skies of gray

The early snow was flying.

And now, while over Nature's mood

There steals a soft relenting,

I will not mar the present good,

Forecasting or lamenting.

My autumn time and Nature's hold

A dreamy tryst together,

And, both grown old, about us fold

The golden-tissued weather.

I lean my heart against the day

To feel its bland caressing;

I will not let it pass away

Before it leaves its blessing.

God's angels come not as of old

The Syrian shepherds knew them;

In reddening dawns, in sunset gold,

And warm noon lights I view them.

Nor need there is, in times like this

When heaven to earth draws nearer,

Of wing or song as witnesses

To make their presence clearer.

O stream of life, whose swifter flow

Is of the end forewarning,

Methinks thy sundown afterglow

Seems less of night than morning!

Old cares grow light; aside I lay

The doubts and fears that troubled;

The quiet of the happy day

Within my soul is doubled.

That clouds must veil this fair sunshine

Not less a joy I find it;

Nor less yon warm horizon line

That winter lurks behind it.

The mystery of the untried days

I close my eyes from reading;

His will be done whose darkest ways

To light and life are leading!

Less drear the winter night shall be,

If memory cheer and hearten

Its heavy hours with thoughts of thee,

Sweet summer of St. Martin!