HYMN FOR SEPTEMBER.

"Thou madest him to have dominion over the works of Thy hands; Thou hast put all things under his feet."-Psalm viii. 6.

O SACRED Providence, who from end to end.
Strongly and sweetly movest! shall I write,
And not of Thee, through whom my fingers bend
To hold my quill? shall they not do Thee right?

Of all the creatures both in sea and land,
Only to man Thou hast made known Thy ways;
And put the pen alone into his hand,
And made him secretary of Thy praise.

Beasts fain would sing; birds ditty to their notes ;
Trees would be tuning on their native lute
To Thy renown: but all their hands and throats
Are brought to man, while they are lame and mute.

Man is the world's high priest: he doth present
The sacrifice for all; while they below
Unto the service mutter an assent,

Such as springs use that fall, and winds that blow.

He that to praise and laud Thee doth refrain,
Doth not refrain unto himself alone,

But robs a thousand who would praise Thee fain;
And doth commit a world of sin in one.

"The year's decline, 'midst storms and floods, The thund'ring chase, the yellow fading woods.'

EASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness !

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun!
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit, the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;

To swell the gourd and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel-to set budding more,

And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,

For Summer has o'erbrimmed their clammy cells.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them-thou hast thy music too,
While barred clouds bloom the soft dying day,
And touch the stubble plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft,

Or sinking, as the light wind lives or dies;

And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourne;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now, with treble soft,
The redbreast whistles from a garden croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

FOREST SCENERY IN AUTUMN.

BUT see the fading many-coloured woods,
Shade deepening over shade, the country round
Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk, and dun,
Of every hue, from wan-declining green
To sooty dark. These now the lonesome Muse,
Low-whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks
And give the season in its latest view.

Meantime, light shadowing all, a sober calm
Fleeces unbounded ether; whose least wave
Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn.
The gentle current; while illumined wide,
The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun,
And through their lucid veil his softened force
Shed o'er the peaceful world. Then is the time
For those whom wisdom and whom nature charm,
To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd,
And soar above this little scene of things;
To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet;
To soothe the throbbing passions into peace,
And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks.

The pale descending year, yet pleasing still,
A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf
Incessant rustles from the mournful grove,
Oft startling such as, studious, walk below,
And slowly circles through the waving air.
But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs
Sob, o'er the sky the leafy deluge streams;