Dec. 1, 1867.] 



HARDWICKE'S SCIENCE-GOSSIP. 



205 



IDES BEUMALI^. 



HE last rose of 

 Summer, with 

 all its perfume 

 and pleasant as- 

 sociations, has 

 shed its fra- 

 grant petals on 

 the damp", cold 

 the fading leaves, 



That with their rich variety of 

 shades 



Made yonder forest in the slant- 

 ing sun 



So beautiful, — 



whirling in a " dance of 

 death " over the bare fallows. 

 The air is crisp, the breeze is 

 keen, and 



There is a fragrance in its breath 

 Which is not of the flowers, but 

 death. 



The sights that attract the eye, the sounds that 

 greet the ear, and the odours that invade the nose, 

 all declare 



That there hath passed away 

 A glory from the earth. 



Myriads of insect forms which lately thronged 

 the ah' have retired from active life. A solitary 

 Dragon-fly flits now and then, ghost-like and grim, 

 through the fitful gleams of pallid sunshine. The 

 Thrush and the Blackbird are mute, and the Skylark 

 trills an intermitting lay. The Hooded Crow and 

 the Coddy-moddy Gull stalk in stately silence over 

 the gossamer-webbed fields. Spring, with its smiles 

 and tears, its toils and hopes; Summer, with its 

 glowing vigour and glorious promises; Autumn, 

 with its anxious cares and rich enjoyments, are all 

 gone, all passed away ; and Winter, boisterous in 

 his exultation, rushes over the hills, down into the 

 valleys, and away through the woods, wild with 

 glee at the prospect of a coming time when he shall 

 be monarch of all he surveys. Have we not already 

 seen him on the hill-tops, shaking the folds out of 

 his ermine mantle, and heard him crashing through 



No. 3G. 



the dank woods, shaking down the brown nuts, 

 snapping the dead branches, and tossing the red 

 rustling leaves from his path ? Have we not felt his 

 cold hand on our shoulder, and, shuddering, said, 

 " Yes, the Winter is here ? " Did we not love the 

 blooming Spring, with its bursting buds, fragrant 

 Violets, and yellow Primroses ? Did we not rejoice 

 when we first saw the Spotted Arum, and caught a 

 playful young zephyr tolling the purple clapper 



That hangs in its clear green bell ? 



And did we not laugh outright when the Haw- 

 thorn donned his mantle of odorous blossom ? And 

 did we not love, too, "the thousand charms be- 

 longing to the Summer's day"— the sweet birds 

 carolling the morn, the fresh breeze laden with the 

 odour of new-mown hay, the glowing noon with its 

 glittering swarms, the beauteous flowers, the rich 

 green leaves, " the voices of the forest range, and 

 the music of the rill " ? And when Autumn came, 

 did we not love it, too, with its broad rich fields 

 of yellow grain, its rich ripe fruits and gorgeous 

 foliage ? Did we not stay to hear the soothing 

 hum of "the yellow Bee in the Ivy bloom" ? Did 

 we not revel in its crisp cool air and yellow light, 

 its glorious days and just less glorious nights ? 

 But now 



The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, 



The bare boughs are sighing, the pale fl owers are dying. 



And the year 

 On the earth, her death bier, in a shroud of leaves, dead 



Is lying, 



slain by the ruthless hand of pitiless Winter, and 

 her garments, once so beautiful, are torn from her 

 corpse, and scattered in tatters, stained by the san- 

 guinary fingers of her destroyer ! How can we 

 welcome him, or how can we rejoice at his coming, 

 for does he not drive away joy and gladness from 

 the earth, and bring desolation and death ? 



Behold, fond man, 

 See here, thy pictured life ; pass some few years 

 Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength, 

 And pale concluding Winter comes at last, 

 Thy sober Autumn fading into age, 

 Andshuts the scene. 



