American Watchman And Delaware Advertiser

FROM THE SALEM OBSERVER.
AUTUMN.

Come then, pale Autumn! breathe thy withering breeze
Forth on the blooming world, and bid it die;
Chill monitor of earth's inconstancies,
Come tell the saddening tale of bliss-gone by:
For thou canst speak—speak in the sweeping blast,
The howling storm, the night-wind's whispering—
Tender and mournful, of the lovely past,
And to the soul delicious sorrow bring.

Sad is the voice of fading loveliness,
Of beauty gently sinking to decay,
The last soft parting sigh that comes to bless—
It comes from summer's bloom, low-laid and lost,
And such, O Autumn, is thy plaintive lay!
From leafless groves, from streamlets bright no more,
From fields pale sparkling in the moon light frost,
Or from the shadow of a sunless shore.
Yet it is sweet—it speaks of holy hours,—
And though its rudeness fells the feeble flowers.
Of pleasant wanderings, not yet forgot;
It leaves their fragrance in the bliss of thought.

And memory springs while life's rude storms war on
A quenching awhile the genial light of day,
And paints anew the glories that are gone,
To cheer the pilgrim on his weary way.