Old Autumn thou art here! upon the Earth
And in the heavens, the signs of death are hung;
For o'er the Earth's brown breast stalks pale decay,
And 'mong the lowering clouds the wild winds wail,
And, sighing sadly, chant the solemn dirge
O'er summer's fairest flowers, all faded now.
The Winter god, descending from the skies,
Has reached the mountain tops, and decked their brows
With glittering frosty crowns, and breathed his breath
Among the trumpet pines, that herald forth
His coming.

Before the driving blast
The mountain oak bows down his hoary head,
And flings his withered locks to the rough gales
That fiercely roar among the branches bare,
Uplifted to the dark unpitying heavens.
The skies have put their mourning garments on
And hung their funeral drapery on the clouds.
Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow
And lie entombed in Winter's icy grave.

Thus passes life. As hoary age comes on
The joys of youth—bright beauties of the spring,
Grow dim and faded, and the long dark night
Of Death's chill Winter comes. But as the spring
Rebuilds the ruined wrecks of Winter's waste,
And cheers the gloomy earth with joyous light,
So o'er the tomb, the Star of Hope shall rise,
And usher in an ever during day.

Quarterly, 1854.

[Footnote 1: Died 1881.]