Him for my wine, him for my stud,
Him for my easel, distich, bud
In mountain walk!

Bring WALTER good,

With soul-full FRED, and learned WILL;
And thee, my alter ego (dearer still
For every mood).

JOHN HOWARD BRYANT. *

Born at Cummington, Mass: 1807.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

THAT Soft autumnal time

Is come that sheds upon the naked scene
Charms only known in this our northern clime,—
Bright seasons, far between.

The woodland foliage now

Is gather'd by the wild November blast;
E'en the thick leaves upon the poplar's bough
Are fallen, to the last.

The mighty vines, that round

The forest trunks their slender branches bind,
Their crimson foliage shaken to the ground,
Swing naked in the wind.

Some living green remains,

By the clear brook that shines along the lawn; But the sear grass stands white o'er all the plains, And the bright flowers are gone.

But these, these are thy charms,

Mild airs and temper'd light upon the lea;
And the year holds no time within its arms
That doth resemble thee.

The sunny noon is thine,

Soft, golden, noiseless as the dead of night;
And hues that in the flush'd horizon shine
At eve and early light.

*See Note 11.

The year's last, loveliest smile,

Thou comest to fill with hope the human heart, And strengthen it to bear the storms awhile, Till winter days depart.

O'er the wide plains, that lie

A desolate scene, the fires of autumn spread,
And nightly on the dark walls of the sky
A ruddy brightness shed.

Far in a shelter'd nook

I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower,
A lonely aster, trembling by a brook,
At the quiet noontide's hour.

And something told my mind,

That, should old age to childhood call me back, Some sunny days and flowers I still might find Along life's weary track.

NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS.

Born at Portland, Maine, 1807-died 1867.

THE ANNOYER.

LOVE knoweth every form of air,
And every shape of earth,
And comes unbidden everywhere,
Like thought's mysterious birth.
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky
Are written with Love's words,
And you hear his voice unceasingly,
Like song in the time of birds.

He

peeps into the warrior's heart From the tip of a stooping plume,

And the serried spears, and the many men,

May not deny him room.

He'll come to his tent in the weary night,

And be busy in his dream,

And he'll float to his eye in the morning light,
Like a fay on a silver beam.

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,

And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf,
And flits in his woodland track.

The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river,
The cloud and the open sky,-

He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver,
Like the light of your very eye.

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat,

And ponders the silver sea,

For Love is under the surface hid,
And a spell of thought has he;
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet,
And speaks in the ripple low,

Till the bait is gone from the crafty line,
And the hook hangs bare below.

He blurs the print of the scholar's book,
And intrudes in the maiden's prayer,
And profanes the cell of the holy man
In the shape of a lady fair.

In the darkest night, and the bright daylight,
In earth, and sea, and sky,
In every home of human thought

Will Love be lurking nigh.

TWO WOMEN.

THE shadows lay along Broadway,
"Twas near the twilight-tide,
And slowly there a lady fair

Was walking in her pride.

Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly,
Walk'd spirits at her side.

Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet,
And Honour charm'd the air;

And all astir look'd kind on her,
And call'd her good as fair,-
For all God ever gave to her
She kept with chary care.

She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true,

For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo,—
But honour'd well are charms to sell
If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair,—
A slight girl, lily-pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail,

"Twixt Want and Scorn she walk'd forlorn,

And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow

For this world's peace to pray;

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, Her woman's heart gave way!—

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven By man is cursed alway!

SATURDAY AFTERNOON.

I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old,

And my

locks are not yet gray;

For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,

And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walk'd the world for fourscore years, And they say that I am old

That my

heart is ripe for the reaper Death, And my years are well-nigh told. It is very true-it is very true

I am old, and I "bide my time;
But my heart will leap at a scene like this,
And I half renew my prime.

Play on! play on! I am with you there,
In the midst of your merry ring;
I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,
And the rush of the breathless swing.
I hide with you in the fragrant hay,
And I whoop the smother'd call,
And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,
And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,
And I shall be glad to go-

For the world, at best, is a weary place,
And my pulse is getting low;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail
In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness
To see the young so gay.

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.*

Born at Haverhill, Mass: 1807.

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE.

Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme,-
On Apuleius' Golden Ass,

Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human hack,
Islam's Prophet on Al-Borak,-

The strangest ride that ever was sped
*See Note 12.