60 Ballad--- Why is the Spanish maiden's O how art thou fallen, thou city of God 940 446 O melancholy bird, a winter's day 396 403 210 Our slavery is finished, our labour is done 88 140 468 122 310, 465 191 469 187, Shepherd's son 366 488 456 150 Song---for thee, love, for thee, love 31 302 Song of a fallen angel, imitation of Moore 41 48 88 228 Sonnet on seing an infant dead 319 58 358 374 443 340, 382 126 102 302 118 165 There is no smile to answer thine 165 122 The ring you gave, the kiss you gave 292 310 310 311 284 439 414 456 481 392 To a bird that baunted the waters 996 403 11 169 409 48 126 Verses to the memory of Bloomfield 358 311 102 281 Watch-fires are blazing on hill and plain 118 117 476 Why do we love Why art thou thus, thou lonely bark 150 31 October, a sketch 454 SPIRIT OF THE ENGLISH MAGAZINES. BOSTON, OCTOBER 1, 1823. (Blackwood's Mag.) AUTUMNAL MEDITATIONS. AMID the stillness of an Autuma eve, Sacred to njusing is the Autumn eve, Scarcely a month hath past, since last I stood The faded woods a sallow livery wear ; How passing! and the changes of the earth.2 ATHENEUM VOL. 14. . In May, that fence was sprinkled with white flowers It is a lone and melancholy scene Of sickness, stillness, and forlorn decay ! A natural sermon to the heart of man, A beautiful memento of the grave ! Lo ! as I pass, from off the tall scathed ash The raven startled, takes to flight, and wings Its lonely way to the mid wood; more deep Eve's shadow fall, till the green hills become Blue, and o'ermantled with a hazy tinct. The spaniel from my foot starts forth, as if Some sound had lured him, and, with fore-paws placed On rising turf, he stands : thence, with raised ears, Looks for th attentive : from the moors, dim-seen, Region of wild thyme, broom, and heather green, With wearied pointers twain, the sportsınan comes ; His gun sloped o'er his shoulder, and his bag Heavy with slaughter'd game : On he pursues, With laggard step, his journey, travel-worn, And weary for the glittering star of home, The blazing hearth, where, o'er his evening meal, And cheering cup, of marvels he proclaims, Seen on the mountain, and of wondrous feats Perform'd; the covey scatter'd, and the hare Shot at far distance, 'mid the wither'd gorse. Over the rutted road the empty wane Homeward is driven ; and, at far intervals, Towards yon low village, wends the husbandman, Slow sauntering by :—With a wild, wailing shriek, Heard from above, the white-mew, with slow wing, Drops downward to the sea-shore, and is met Oo high, by wild-geese flock, on journey bent Far inland, flying wedge-wise, and drawn up In regular files, as if for marshall'd war. Well it accords, at such a pensive hour, When from the southern sky with beauteous beam Shines dewy Hesper ; and the far-off hills Have sombred all their tints of greenery, In solitude to ponder o'er the thoughts Of childhood, and of boyhood, and of youth, And all the magic of departed years ! To conjure np the bright Elysian dreams That hovered round, and cheated the warm heart, (As in Arabia's central plains, the sands, Like waters gleam, mocking the pilgrim's eye ;) To see again the faces that around Life's path then throng'd, in sunny joyfulness, And now are scatter'd o'er the wide round world, Or, slumbering in the silence of the grave, Are to its murmurs deaf, its praises lost ; Well it accords, then, in a fond review, To summon forth the heart's long-banish'd loves, The young affections that decoy'd the soul, Beauty's warm cheek, and Friendship's laughing eye : In fond review to dwell upon the scenes |