128 AUTUMN. 



thology her fable fountains, and from which issues all that claims 

 the name of music, short of the voiceless harmony of Heaven. In 

 summer it is mellowed into the harmony of hope. The voice which 

 never mourned is heard in its rich diapasons ; its glowing progress- 

 ions are tempered to the calmness of matured desire ; its echoes are 

 unbroken by the irregular responses of untutored passion, and its 

 deep and evervarying consonances chime, swell and estuate, in 

 infinite gradation. 



Beautifully though sadly the reverse of these is the style of au- 

 tumn's " unwritten music." The hope of the glad spring and the 

 devotion of the ardent summer, have been damped but not to deaden 

 a single tone. The chords on which once played the breath of the affec- 

 tions are strained but not to break. The mind is no longer a mighty 

 organ, yielding its sounds to the hand of man ; but becomes a 

 gentle uEolian harp, catching its magic tones from every breath of 

 the autumnal breeze. Plaintive and sweet, and though sound itself 

 had caught a charm from the beautiful hues of decay, they come 

 upon the ear blending into harmony such strains as no art can imi- 

 tate, no science arrange, no skill record. Such is the music of 

 autumn upon that deep-toned glorious instrument — the heart. 



The grave comes gloomily upon the thoughts of youth. They 

 have not yet buried there the better part of their hearts. To the 

 pilgrim who has farther advanced on the highway of human disap- 

 pointments, the last home of man is a welcome theme. Lovely to 

 him, not only that it already holds his best hopes and his only 

 charms that made the world fair amid all its desolation, the grave, 

 — the cold and dreary grave sends up a sweet and holy call to his 

 weary and broken spirit. All that speaks of decay has a charm to 

 him. No marvel then that he woos the melancholy influence of 

 autumn, and breathes with an untold delight her sighing breezes, 

 and settles an unwearied gaze upon her red and yellow forests. Let 

 childhood hang with enrapturing fondness over the brilliant beauty 

 of spring's first flowers ; but its little idols will wither. Let matu- 

 rer youth yield its full devotion to the fruitful and fervent hopes of 

 summer; yet they too shall pass away. But who, that has ever re- 

 lished the calm yet passionate love of fading beauty, whicli steals 

 upon the unsubdued though softened spirit of one whose hopes have 

 been like the summer cloud, will cling to such fleeting hues again. 

 There is an autumn in his soul, where all these images are deep and 

 indellible. Even the winter of age, though it withers the outer 

 form, can never supplant the sweetly lingering hues of autumn in 

 in the soul. They cling to the memory longer than hope, — and the 

 memory itself is life. S n. 



