THE SEASON OF BROWN LEAVES. 33 



blossoms and fruits of the summer ; and in the impulsive heart, beating 

 in harmony with the instinctive nature of the primeval man, are en- 

 folded the acts of his illimitable successors. The shepherd-life, with 

 its simplicity and peace, is seen again in the radiant face of the 

 infant, and the violet tenderness of the spring. The age of chivalry, 

 with its costly pomp, its clang and clash of arms, its great deeds of 

 daring and sacrifice, break out in the hours of individual passion 

 when manhood has not yet set its seal on the brow, and when the 

 outward semblance of heroism is mistaken for the supporting and 

 sustaining ardour which springs from manly determinations. The 

 first flush of summer has it, too, when the fruits are yet unripe, and 

 storms dash in and out between the leaf-laden branches. But the 

 autumn and the browning leaf must come, and it is already here 

 around us. Who then is worthy to die, worthy as the leaves are, all 

 rf whose duties have been fulfilled ? "Who is worthy to convert body 

 and soul into a soil for the growth of the next generation of men, 

 whose bodies are to be formed out of the elements of ours — whose 

 spirits are to be fed with the aims, and hopes, and knowledge we have 

 nurtured, and which we must bequeath to them by an inevitable 

 necessity ? 



There's not one atom of yon earth but once was living man, 

 Nor the minutest drop thathangeth in its thinnest cloud, 

 But flowed in human veins. 



Queen Mab. 



Who among us has been living all these years in vain, watching the 

 greening and the browning of the leaves, without taking heed that 

 his autumn must come, and that winter must heap snow on his tomb, 

 as upon the graves of fallen leaflets ? The listless heart, the idle 

 brain, the lips that have breathed curses, are to live for ever ; and the 

 curses, and the evil passions, and the cherished hate, are to live also 

 and to grow as all things grow through generation after generation. 

 My child there has my face, my passion, my hope, my moral tur- 

 pitude. Sliall I not blush, then, that long ago 1 did not root out my 

 sins and failings, and supplant them with a nobler growth of hopes 

 and aspirations, that these only might break out in him, and that for 

 his sake the browning of the leaf might find me worthy of the blessed 

 hand of death ? For truly the destruction of things is only a neces- 

 sary step in this endless growth on growth, and Death is himself the 

 most potent of creators. 



D 



