THE INDIAN SUMMER.

It is not like the Spring-time, bright
     With budding leaves and opening flowers,
But there’s a glory in its light,
Softer than that which falls by night
     On lovers’ bowers.

There is a mellow tint on every tree,
And nature’s breath is sweet, and all is harmony.

It is not like the Summer time,
     Enlivened by a brilliant sun,
It savors of a purer clime

Than Summer, in its earliest prime,
     E’er smiled upon.
There is a light serene on everything,
Half veiled, and blushing, like a Bride in Spring.

Thou com’st in Autumn, when the trees

     Have doff’d their florid livery,
Ere Winter sweeps, with blighting breeze,
And fetters strong, to bind the seas—
     All hail to thee!
To thee, whose subtle charms no pen can trace,

To whom the artist’s skill imparts no flattering grace. [Page 204]