•278 
JAMES DIXON. 
The brilliant dyes of the Autumn woods 
Have gladdened the forest bowers, 
And decked their pathless solitudes, 
Like a blooming waste of flowers ; 
In the hidden depths no sound is heard, 
Save a low and murmuring wail, 
As the rustling leaves are gently stirred 
By the breath of the dying gale. 
The hazy clouds in the mellow light, 
Fast with the breezes fly, 
Where the far-off mountain’s misty height 
Seems mingling with the sky ; 
And the dancing streams rejoice again 
In the glow of the golden sun ; 
And the flocks are glad in the grassy plain 
Where the sparkling waters run. 
’Tis a season of deep and quiet thought, 
And it brings a calm to the breast; 
And the broken heart, and the mind o’erwrought, 
May find, in its stillness, rest; 
For the gentle voice of the dying year, 
From forest and sunny plain, 
Is sweet as it falls on the mourner’s ear, 
And his spirit forgets its pain. 
