THE BLUE-STEMMED GOLDEN-ROD. 



the glory of the season's old age. They wait upon his slow, 

 lingering footsteps in the lengthening shadows, and most glo- 

 riously strew his pathway with the brightest floral gems of 

 earth. The poet makes old Autumn sad that he must part with 

 so much that is beautiful. 



" There comes, from yonder height, 

 A soft repining sound. 

 Where forest-leaves are bright, 

 And fall like flakes of light, 

 To the ground. 



It is the Autumn breeze. 



That, lightly floating on, 

 Just skims the reedy leas. 

 Just stirs the glowing trees, 

 And is gone. 



He moans by sedgy brook. 



And visits with a sigh, 

 The last pale flowers that look, 

 From out their sunny nook 

 At the sky." 



But it seems to me he ought rather to be glad that the flowers 

 so fill the earth and stay so long, that they bravely face cold, 

 and winds, and sleet, that they may stay to cheer the world 

 with their presence, and that they blossom even by his new 

 made grave, till the wintry winding-sheet of snow covers all. 

 Do not these beautiful creatures of the sun teach us to look on 

 the sunny side of things, on the sunny side even of autumn 

 and of Death ? But there are a thousand pleasant scenes of 

 autumn time with which the Golden-Rod is most closely asso- 



