Autumn Leaves | Page 4

speaks;
No color shoots into those cheeks,

Either of anger or of pride,
At the rude question we have asked;--

Nor will the mystery be unmasked
By those who are sleeping at
her side.
Hereafter?--And do you think to look
On the terrible pages of that
Book
To find her failings, faults, and errors?
Ah, you will then have
other cares,
In your own short-comings and despairs,
In your own
secret sins and terrors!
H.W.L.
THE LITTLE SOUTH-WIND.
The little south-wind had been shut up for many days, while his cousin
from the northeast had been abroad, and the clouds had been heavy and
dark; but now all was bright and clear, and the little south-wind was to
have a holiday. O, how happy he would be! He sallied forth to amuse
himself;--and hear what he did. He came whistling down the chimney,
until the nervous old lady was ready to fly with vexation: then away he
flew, laughing in triumph,--the naughty south-wind! He played with the
maiden's work: away the pieces flew, some here, some there, and away
ran the maiden after. What cared she for the wind? She tossed back her
curls and laughed merrily, and the wind laughed merrily too,--the silly
south-wind! Onward he stole, and lifting the curtain,--curious
south-wind!--what did he see? On the sofa lay a young man: a heavy
book was in his hand. The little south-wind rustled through the leaves,
but the young man stirred not; he was asleep; hot and weary, he slept.

The wind fanned his brow awhile, lifted his dark locks, and, leaving a
kiss behind, stole out at the casement,--the gentle south-wind! Then he
met a little child: away he whirled the little boy's hat, away ran the
child, but his little feet were tired, and he wept,--poor child! The wind
looked back, and felt sad, then hung the hat on a bush, and went on. He
had played too hard,--the thoughtless south-wind! A sick child lay
tossing to and fro: its hands and face were hot and dry. The mother
raised the window. The wind heard her as he was creeping by, and
stepping in, he cooled the burning face: then, playing among the
flowers until their fragrance filled the room, away he flew,--the kind
south-wind! He went out into the highway, and played with the dust;
but that was not so pleasant, and onward he sped to the meadow. The
dust could not follow on the green grass, and the little south-wind soon
outstripped it, and onward and onward he sped, over mountain and
valley, dancing among the flowers, and frolicking round, until the trees
lifted up their arms and bent their heads and shook their sides with
glee,--the happy south-wind! At last he came to a quiet dell, where a
little brook lay, just stirring among his white pebbles. The wind said,
"Kind brook, will you play with me?" And the brook answered with a
sparkling smile, and a gentle murmur. Then the wind rose up, and,
sporting among the dark pines, whistled and sung through the lofty
branches, while the pretty brook danced along, and warbled songs to
the music of its merry companion,--the merry south-wind! But the sun
had gone down and the stars were peeping forth, and the day was done.
The happy south-wind was still, and the moon looked down on the
world below, and watched among the trees and hills, but all was still:
the little south-wind slumbered, and the moon and the stars kept
guard,--poor, tired south-wind! Old lady and maiden, young man and
child, the dust and the flowers, were forgotten, and he slept,--dear little
south-wind!
LINES
WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF DR. HOLMES'S LECTURES
ON ENGLISH POETRY.
[Footnote: The Poets are metaphorically introduced as follows.

ROGERS, The Beech_; CAMPBELL, _The Fir_; BYRON, _The Oak;
MOORE, The Elm_; SCOTT, _The Chestnut_; SOUTHEY, _The Holly;
COLERIDGE, The Magnolia_; KEATS, _The Orange_;
WORDSWORTH, _The Pine; TENNYSON, The Palm_; FELICIA
HEMANS, _The Locust; ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING, The
Laurel.]
Farewell! farewell! The hours we've stolen
From scenes of worldly
strife and stir,
To live with poets, and with thee,
Their brother and
interpreter,
Have brought us wealth;--as thou hast reaped,
We have not followed
thee in vain,
But gathered, in one precious sheaf,
The pearly flower
and golden grain.
For twelve bright hours, with thee we walked
Within a magic
garden's bound,
Where trees, whose birth owned various climes,

Beneath one sky were strangely found.
First in the group, an ancient BEECH
His shapely arms abroad did
fling,
Wearing old Autumn's russet crown
Among the lively tints of
Spring.
Those pale brown leaves the winds of March
Made vocal 'mid the
silent trees,
And spread their faint perfume abroad,
Like sad, yet
pleasant memories.
Near it, the vigorous, noble FIR
Arose, with firm yet graceful mien;

Welcome for shelter or for shade,
A pyramid of living green.
And from the tender, vernal spray
The sunny air such fragrance drew,

As breathes from fields of strawberries