THE ROBIN. BY JONES VERY. THOU need'st not flutter from thy half-built nest Fearing his eye for harm may on thee rest, And the light wings of heart-ascending prayer Had learned that Heaven is pleased thy simple share. THE SYLPH OF AUTUMN. BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON. AND NOW, in accents deep and low, Like voice of fondly-cherished wo, The Sylph of Autumn sad: Though I may not of raptures sing, That graced the gentle song of Spring, Like Summer, playful pleasures bring, Thy youthful heart to glad; Yet still may I in hope aspire Thy heart to touch with chaster fire, And purifying love: For I with vision high and holy, Thy soul from sublunary folly First raised to worlds above. What though be mine the treasures fair Of purple grape and yellow pear, D⭑ That dance in waves along the plain To merry song of reaping swain, Beneath the welkin blue; With these I may not urge my suit, Of Summer's patient toil the fruit, Nor may it fit my sober mood To sing of sweetly murmuring flood, Or dyes of many-coloured wood, That mock the bow of heaven. But, know, 'twas mine the secret powe That waked thee at the midnight hour In bleak November's reign: 'Twas I the spell around thee cast, When thou didst hear the hollow blast In murmurs tell of pleasures past, That ne'er would come again : And led thee, when the storm was o'er To hear the sullen ocean roar, By dreadful calm opprest; Which, still, though not a breeze was t "Twas I, when thou, subdued by wo, Didst watch the leaves descending slow, To each a moral gave; And as they moved in mournful train, D** In pomp of evening cloud; That, while with varying form it rolled, And now a crimsoned knight of old, And, last, as sunk the setting sun, Oh, then with what aspiring gaze To yonder orbs on high, And think how wondrous, how sublime "Twere upward to their spheres to climb, And live, beyond the reach of Time, Child of Eternity! |