MRS. E. C. KINNEY. I. FADING AUTUMN. TH' autumnal glories all have passed away; Give glowing tokens of their brief decay, But scattered lie, or rustle at the tread, Like whispered warnings from the mouldering dead; The naked trees stretch out their arms all day, As if for some new covering to pray. Come, WINTER, then, and spread thy robe of white Above the desolation of this scene; And when the sun with gems shall make it bright, Or, when its snowy folds by midnight's queen Are silvered o'er with a serener light, We'll cease to sigh for summer's living green, II. A WINTER NIGHT. How calm, how solemn, how sublime the scene! On earth, which, in a snowy shroud arrayed, O, I could watch, till morn should change the sight, This cold, this beautiful, this mournful winter night! III. CULTIVATION. WEEDS grow unasked, and even some sweet flowers Spring not in Mind's uncultivated soil, But are the birth of time, and mental toil, And all the culture Learning's hand can give : Fancies, like wild-flowers, in a night may grow; But thoughts are plants whose stately growth is slow. IV. ENCOURAGEMENT. WHEN first peeps out from earth the modest vine, May crush the being from a thing so low! Around some lattice-work, and 't will bestow Its thanks in fragrance, and with blossoms shine. And thus, when Genius first puts forth its shoot, So timid that it scarce dare ask to live, The tender germ, if trodden under foot, Shrinks back again to its undying root; While kindly training bids it upward strive, And to the future flowers immortal give. V. TO A VIOLET FOUND IN DECEMBER. ILL-FATED Violet! opening thy blue eye In Winter's face, who treacherous smiles, to see So fair a child, of parent such as he ! And didst thou think in his chill lap to lie, Wrapt in the fallen mantle of the tree, Secure as if Spring's bosom cherished thee? Ah, little flower! thy doom must be to die By thine own sire, like Saturn's progeny. In vain do human gentleness and love And breathing beauty hope to meet the soul Through which a holy influence never stole. Though softening love the lion's heart may move, It cannot make cold SELF itself forget; Nor canst thou Winter change, sweet Violet. |