510 ELIZA COOK. 
Look high, look high, there’s the lace-winged fly, 
Thinking he’s king of a fairy realm, 
As he swings with delight on the gossamer tie, 
That is linked ’mid the boughs of the sun-tipped elm | 
Alas! poor thing, the first rustle will bring 
The pillars to dust, where your pleasure clue weaves, 
And many a spirit, like thine, will cling 
To hopes that depend upon Autumn leaves! 
Look low, look low, the night-gusts blow, 
And the restless forms in hectic red, 
Come whirling and sporting wherever we go, 
Lighter in dancing, as nearer the dead ! 
Oh! who has not seen rare hearts, that have been 
Painted and painting, in garb that deceives, 
Dashing gayly along in their fluttering sheen 
With Despair at the core, like the Autumn leaves! 
Look on, look on, morn breaketh upon 
The hedge-row boughs, in their withering hue ; 
The distant orchard is sallow and wan, 
But the apple and nut gleam richly through. 
Oh! well it will be if our life, like the tree, 
Shall be found when old Time of green beauty bereaves, 
With the fruit of good works for the Planter to see 
Shining out in Truth’s harvest through Autumn leaves! 




