Him for my wine, him for my stud, Bring WALTER good, With soul-full FRED, and learned WILL; JOHN HOWARD BRYANT. * Born at Cummington, Mass: 1807. THE INDIAN SUMMER. THAT Soft autumnal time Is come that sheds upon the naked scene The woodland foliage now Is gather'd by the wild November blast; The mighty vines, that round The forest trunks their slender branches bind, 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; The sunny noon is thine, Soft, golden, noiseless as the dead of night; *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, Far in a shelter'd nook I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower, 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, 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, He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, And sighs in his ear like a stirring leaf, The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, And ponders the silver sea, For Love is under the surface hid, Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, He blurs the print of the scholar's book, In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, Will Love be lurking nigh. TWO WOMEN. THE shadows lay along Broadway, Was walking in her pride. Alone walk'd she; but, viewlessly, Peace charm'd the street beneath her feet, And all astir look'd kind on her, She kept with care her beauties rare For her heart was cold to all but gold, Now walking there was one more fair,— 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, 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; Play on! play on! I am with you there, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world, at best, is a weary place, But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.* Born at Haverhill, Mass: 1807. SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE. Of all the rides since the birth of time, Or one-eyed Calendar's horse of brass, The strangest ride that ever was sped |