Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 136.pdf/11

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The dying leaves fall fast,
Chestnut, willow, oak, and beech,
All brown and withered lie.
Now swirling in the cutting blast,
Now sodden under foot — they teach
That one and all must die.

This autumn of the year
Comes sadly home to my poor heart,
Whose youthful hopes are fled.
The darkening days are drear,
Each love once mine I see depart
As withered leaves and dead.

But is it all decay?
All present loss? — no gain remote?
Monotony of pain?
Ah no: I hear a lay
The robin sings — how sweet the note,
A pure unearthly strain.

And, of all flowers the first,
Beneath these leaves in spring shall blow
Sweet violets blue and white.
So all lost loves shall burst,
In springlike beauty, summer glow,
In Heaven upon our sight.

Macmillan's Magazine.M. C. C.

VIXI PUELLIS. (Hor. iii. 26.)

We loved of yore, in warfare bold
Nor laurelless. Now all must go;
Let this left wall of Venus show
The arms, the tuneless lyre of old.

Here let them hang, the torches cold,
The portal-bursting bar, the bow,
We loved of yore.

But thou, who Cyprus sweet dost hold,
And Memphis free from Thracian snow,
Goddess and queen, with vengeful blow,
Smite, — smite but once that pretty scold
We loved of yore.

Spectator.Austin Dobson.


A moment of loving and laughter,
A jest and a gay good-bye.
If you one short week after
Forget, why may not I?

To you but a moment's feeling,
A touch and a tender tone;
A wound that knows no healing
To me who am left alone.

A wound, and an aching wonder
That lightly you go from me,
That we must be kept asunder
By the cold abiding sea.

Blackwood's Magazine.


In my autumn garden I was fain
To mourn among my scattered roses:
Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses
To autumn's languid sun and rain,
When all the world is on the wane!
Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June,
Nor heard the nightingale in tune.

Broad-faced asters by my garden walk,
You are but coarse compared with roses:
More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses
Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk,
That least and last which cold winds balk;
A rose it is tho' least and last of all,
A rose to me tho' at the fall.

Athenæum.Christina G. Rossetti.

FONS BANDUSIÆ. (Hor. iii. 13.)

O babbling spring! than glass more clear,
Worthy of wine, and wreath not sere,
To-morrow shall a kid be thine
With swelled and sprouting brows for sign,
Sure sign! of loves and battles near.

Child of the race that butt and rear!
Not less, alas! his life-blood dear
Shall tinge thy cold wave crystalline,
O babbling spring!

Thee Sirius knows not. Thou dost cheer
With pleasant cool the plough-worn steer,
The wandering flock. This verse of mine
Shall rank thee one with founts divine;
Men shall thy rock and tree revere,
O babbling spring!



The wind is sighing,
The rose is dying,
The swallow is flying
Over the sea;
The leaf is yellow,
The fruit hangs mellow,
The summer's knell, low,
Sounds o'er the lea.

Winter is coming,
East winds are dumbing,
The golden bee's humming.
The reaper's at rest;
Young Love, a rover
'Mong corn and clover,
His wanderings over,
Flies to my breast.

Horace L. Nicholson.
St. James's Magazine.