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 waves that chafe their rocky bound.
Aye-I would sail upon thy air-borne car
To blooming regions distant far,

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

But I would woo the winds to let us rest

O'er Greece long fettered and opprest,

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 may'st frown
In the dark heaven when storms come down,

And weep in rain, till man's inquiring eye
Miss thee, forever, from the sky.

AUTUMNAL NIGHTFALL.

Round Autumn's mouldering urn,
Loud mourns the chill and cheerless gale,
When nightfall shades the quiet vale,
And stars in beauty burn.

'Tis the year's eventide.

The wind,-like one that sighs in pain
O'er joys that ne'er will bloom again,
Mourns on the far hill-side.

And yet my pensive eye
Rests on the faint blue mountain long,
And for the fairy-land of song,
That lies beyond, I sigh.

The moon unveils her brow;

In the mid-sky her urn glows bright,
And in her pale and mellow light
The valley sleeps below.

I stand deep musing here, Beneath the dark and motionless beech, Whilst wandering winds of nightfall reach My melancholy ear.

The air breathes chill and free; A Spirit, in soft music, calls

From Autumn's gray and moss-grown halls, And round her withered tree.

The hoar and mantled oak, With moss and twisted ivy brown, Bends in its lifeless beauty down

Where weeds the fountain choke.

Leaves, that the night-wind bears
To earth's cold bosom with a sigh,
Are types of our mortality,

And of our fading years.

The tree that shades the plain,
Wasting and hoar as time decay
Spring shall renew with cheerful days,—
But not my joys again.

AUTUMN WOODS.

Ere, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.

The mountains that infold

In their wide sweep, the coloured landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendours glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown
Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,-
The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,
Verdure and gloom where many branches meet;
So grateful, when the noon of summer made
The valleys sick with heat?

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; Their sunny-coloured foliage, in the breeze,

Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run,
Shines with the image of its golden screen,
And glimmerings of the sun.

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!

K