206 BRAMBLES AND BAY LEAVES. 



stand laden with cups, and urns, and bells, each containing the unborn 

 germs of another summer's beauty, and only waiting for the winter 

 winds to scatter them, and the spring sunshine to fall upon them 

 where they fall, to break into bud, and leaf, and flower, and to whisper 

 to the passing wind that the soul of Beauty dies not. It is now upon 

 the waning of the sunshine, and the falling of the leaf, that the bleak 

 winds rise angrily, and the gloom of the dying year deepens in the 

 woods and fields. "We hear the plying of the constant flail mingling 

 •with the clatter of the farm-yard ; we are visited by fogs and moving 

 mists, and heavy rains that last for days together ; upon the hill the 

 horn of the hunter is heard, and, in the mountain solitudes, the eagle's 

 scream ; up among craggy rifts the red deer bound, and the waterfall 

 keeps up its peals of thunder ; and though Autumn, having ripened 

 the fruits of Summer, and gathered into the garnery the yellow 

 fruitage of the field, must hie away to sunbright shores and islands in 

 the glittering seas of faerie land, she leaves the spirits of the flowers 

 to hover hither and thither, amid the leafless bowers to bewail in mid- 

 night dirges the loss of leaves and blossoms, and the joyful tide of 

 song. It is one of these of whom the poet speaks ; for he, having been 

 caught up by the divine ether into the regions of eternal beauty, has 

 seen, as mortals seldom see, the shadows of created things, and has 

 spoken with the angel- spirits of the world : — 



" A spirit haunts the last year's hours 

 Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers : 



To himself he talks ; 

 For at eventide, listening earnestly, 

 At his work jou may hear him soh and sigh. 



In the walks 



Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks 

 Of the mouldering flowers. 



Heavily hangs the broad sunfxower, 

 Over its grave i' the earth so chilly, 



Heavily hangs the hollyhock, 

 Heavily hangs the tiger-lily. 

 " The air is damp, and hushed, and close. 

 As a sick man's room when he taketh repose 



An hour before death ; 

 My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves, 

 At the rich moist smell of the rotting leaves, 



And the breath 



Of the fading edges of box beneath, 

 Ar.d the year's last rose. 



