But 'neath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,

Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn! why so soon

Depart the hues that make thy forests glad ;
Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon,
And leave thee wild and sad?

Ah! 'twere a lot too blest

For ever in thy coloured shades to stray;
Amid the kisses of the soft south-west
To rove and dream for ay;

And leave the vain low strife

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That makes men mad-the tug for wealth and power, The passions and the cares that wither life,

And waste its little hour.

MUTATION

THEY talk of short-lived pleasure-be it so-
Pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.
The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;
And after dreams of horror, comes again
The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,

Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease:
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase

Are fruits of innocence and blessedness;
Thus joy, o'erborne and bound, doth still release

ΙΟ

His young limbs from the chains that round him press. Weep not that the world changes-did it keep A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

NOVEMBER

YET one smile more, departing, distant sun!
One mellow smile through the soft vapoury air,
Ere, o'er the frozen earth, the loud winds run,
Or snows are sifted o'er the meadows bare.
One smile on the brown hills and naked trees,
And the dark rocks whose summer wreaths are cast,
And the blue gentian flower, that, in the breeze,
Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.

Yet a few sunny days, in which the bee

Shall murmur by the hedge that skirts the way,

The cricket chirp upon the russet lea,

And man delight to linger in thy ray.

Yet one rich smile, and we will try to bear

ΙΟ

The piercing winter frost, and winds, and darkened air.

SONG OF THE GREEK AMAZON

I BUCKLE to my slender side
The pistol and the scimitar,

And in my maiden flower and pride
Am come to share the tasks of war.
And yonder stands my fiery steed,

That paws the ground and neighs to go,
My charger of the Arab breed,—

I took him from the routed foe.

My mirror is the mountain spring,
At which I dress my ruffled hair;
My dimmed and dusty arms I bring

And wash away the blood-stain there.
Why should I guard from wind and sun
This cheek, whose virgin rose is fled ?
It was for one-oh, only one-

I kept its bloom, and he is dead.

ΤΟ

But they who slew him-unaware
Of coward murderers lurking nigh—
And left him to the fowls of air,

Are yet alive-and they must die.
They slew him-and my virgin years
Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now,
And many an Othman dame in tears
Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow.

I touched the lute in better days,
I led in dance the joyous band;
Ah! they may move to mirthful lays
Whose hands can touch a lover's hand.
The march of hosts that haste to meet
Seems gayer than the dance to me;
The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet
As the fierce shout of victory.

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TO A CLOUD

BEAUTIFUL cloud! with folds so soft and fair,
Swimming in the pure quiet air!

Thy fleeces bathed in sunlight, while below
Thy shadow o'er the vale moves slow;
Where, 'midst their labour, pause the reaper train,
As cool it comes along the grain.

Beautiful cloud! I would I were with thee

In thy calm way o'er land and sea:

To rest on thy unrolling skirts, and look
On Earth as on an open book;

On streams that tie her realms with silver bands,
And the long ways that seam her lands;

And hear her humming cities, and the sound
Of the great ocean breaking round.

Aye I would sail, upon thy air-borne car,
To blooming regions distant far,

ΤΟ

To where the sun of Andalusia shines
On his own olive-groves and vines,
Or the soft lights of Italy's clear sky
In smiles upon her ruins lie.

But I would woo the winds to let us rest

O'er Greece long fettered and oppressed,

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Whose sons at length have heard the call that comes
From the old battle-fields and tombs,

And risen, and drawn the sword, and on the foe
Have dealt the swift and desperate blow,

And the Othman power is cloven, and the stroke
Has touched its chains, and they are broke.
Aye, we would linger till the sunset there
Should come, to purple all the air,

And thou reflect upon the sacred ground
The ruddy radiance streaming round.

Bright meteor! for the summer noontide made !
Thy peerless beauty yet shall fade.

The sun, that fills with light each glistening fold,
Shall set, and leave thee dark and cold :

The blast shall rend thy skirts, or thou mayst frown
In the dark heaven when storms come down;
And weep in rain till man's inquiring eye

Miss thee, for ever, from the sky.

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THE MURDERED TRAVELLER

WHEN Spring, to woods and wastes around,
Brought bloom and joy again,

The murdered traveller's bones were found,
Far down a narrow glen.

The fragrant birch, above him, hung

Her tassels in the sky;

And many a vernal blossom sprung,

And nodded careless by.

The red-bird warbled, as he wrought
His hanging nest o'erhead,
And fearless, near the fatal spot,
Her young the partridge led.

But there was weeping far away,
And gentle eyes for him,

With watching many an anxious day,
Were sorrowful and dim.

They little knew who loved him so,
The fearful death he met,
When shouting o'er the desert snow,
Unarmed, and hard beset ;-

Nor how, when round the frosty pole
The northern dawn was red,
The mountain wolf and wild cat stole
To banquet on the dead ;-

Nor how, when strangers found his bones,
They dressed the hasty bier,

And marked his grave with nameless stones,
Unmoistened by a tear.

But long they looked, and feared, and wept,
Within his distant home;

And dreamed, and started as they slept,
For joy that he was come.

Long, long they looked-but never spied
His welcome step again,

Nor knew the fearful death he died
Far down that narrow glen.

ΙΟ

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