September. 



The herald of stern winter comes to scan our 

 plains and groves ; a spy, to ascertain when the 

 old warrior may march his forces onwards. The 

 frosted scout has fled with earliest morn, and 

 dares but wait the jealous sun's approach. Rapid 

 as thought he vanishes away, and howls his 

 disappointment on the mountain top : there let 

 him stay, till our hearths blaze with embers 

 that defy his power. We thank thee, glorious 

 orb, and keep our dear loved summer yet. The 

 sportsman now with ready gun and ever- 

 watchful dog crosses our quiet path ; a few 

 moments and he is lost in yonder thicket, yet by 

 the faithful echo I can trace his hot pursuit, 

 and calculate his chances of success. How 

 strangely opposite, mine all in silence, his with 



