The Massachusetts Spy, And Worcester County Advertiser

From the Boston Yankee.
Le CHANT a PARTIR.
This autumn close-this autumn close,
With all its rich delights,
Its high and blue and silent days,
Its deep and holy nights;-
My memory shall turn to them,
From all its vagrant flights.
The painted fields, the burnished clouds,
The gold embroider'd floods,
The autumn-glance on all the hills,
His mantle on the woods.
Shall be, through waning winter moons,
To me as present goods.
I've stood upon thy hills, fair land,
When morning fill'd the sky,
And over gleaming sea and isle
The monarch sun rode high;-
So thy proud beauty in my thought
Liveth, and may not die.
And I have bow'd beneath the power
That ruled the parting day,
When harmonies of living hues
Were pour'd o'er hill and bay,
.And stars shone out, and moons rose up;
And yet their light will stay.
Their images will linger yet
To light my happy dreams,
As lovely forms that bend above
'The bosoms of her calm streams,
And years that flow, like waves, away,-
Still give their pleasant gleams.
This autumn close-this autumn close!
How fondly I may shrine
:Its social joys and heartfelt mirth,
To be a jewel mine,
Within the caves of future years,
With fadeless wealth to shine.
So 'mid the wasting cares and toils,
Sad follies, and dark strife,
That sweep, like wintry storms, along
The crowdful ways of life,
I may pass on, and have no want
With thoughtful pleasure rife.
And then, fair land. I may return
Back to thy kindred heart,
And clasp its love, and breathe its truth,
All cool from passion's smart;-
And through all time, beneath all gloom,
This hope shall not depart.