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First peeping out, then starting forth at once
With a courageous air, yet in his pranks
Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far,
Till left unheeded.

SEPTEMBER.

THE sultry summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the slow-declining year;—
All mildness, soothing loneliness and peace;
The fading season ere the falling come,
More sober than the buxom blooming May,
And therefore less the favorite of the world,
But dearest month of all to pensive minds.
'Tis now far spent; and the meridian sun,
Most sweetly smiling with attempered beams,
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth
Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods,
Checkered by one night's frost with various hues,
While yet no wind has swept a leaf away,

Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight

Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged
Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues,
The yellow, red, or purple of the trees,
That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick,
Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side
Of some high mount reflected far below

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First peeping out, then starting forth at once
With a courageous air, yet in his pranks
Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far,
Till left unheeded.

SEPTEMBER.

THE sultry summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the slow-declining year;—
All mildness, soothing loneliness and peace;
The fading season ere the falling come,
More sober than the buxom blooming May,
And therefore less the favorite of the world,
But dearest month of all to pensive minds.
'Tis now far spent; and the meridian sun,
Most sweetly smiling with attempered beams,
Sheds gently down a mild and grateful warmth
Beneath its yellow lustre, groves and woods,
Checkered by one night's frost with various hues,
While yet no wind has swept a leaf away,

Shine doubly rich. It were a sad delight

Down the smooth stream to glide, and see it tinged
Upon each brink with all the gorgeous hues,

The yellow, red, or purple of the trees,
That, singly, or in tufts, or forests thick,

Adorn the shores; to see, perhaps, the side
flected far below

Of some high

With its bright colors, intermixed with spots
Of darker green. Yes, it were sweetly sad
To wander in the open fields, and hear,
E'en at this hour, the noon-day hardly past,
The lulling insects of the summer's night;

To hear, where lately buzzing swarms were heard,
A lonely bee, long roving here and there,

To find a single flower, but all in vain

;

Then, rising quick, and with a louder hum,
In widening circles round and round his head,
Straight by the listener flying clear away,
As if to bid the fields a last adieu;

To hear, within the woodland's sunny side,
Late full of music, nothing, save, perhaps,
The sound of nut-shells, by the squirrel dropped

From some tall beech, fast falling through the leaves.

ANDREWS NORTON.

SCENE AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.

THE rain is o'er.

How dense and bright

Yon pearly clouds reposing lie Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, Contrasting with the dark blue sky!

In grateful silence, earth receives
The general blessing; fresh and fair,
Each flower expands its little leaves,
As glad the common joy to share.

The softened sunbeams pour around
A fairy light, uncertain, pale;
The wind flows cool; the scented ground
Is breathing odors on the gale.

Mid

yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest, to gaze below awhile,

Then turn to bathe and revel there.

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