From Poulson's American Daily Advertiser.

NOVEMBER.
{"newspaper_name": "The Wilmingtonian.", "edition": "01", "page": "p2", "byline": ""}
{"character_count": 1804, "word_count": 308, "ccnet_language_score": [0.9203000068664551], "ccnet_perplexity": [1995.800048828125], "fasttext_language": ["en"]}
Now the trumpet of November blows
The winter trumpet, 'till its failing breath
Goes moaning into silence.


BERRY CORNWALL.
Then welcome cold E; welcome ye snowy nights,
Heav'n midst your rage shall mngle pure delights,
And confidence of hope the soul sustain,
While devastation sweeps along the plain;
Nor shall the child of poverty despair,
But bless the Pow'r that rules the changing year
Assured-though horrors round his cottage reigr
That Spring will come, and nature smile again.


BLOOMFIELD.


The season, which now approaches fas
as the unwearied wings of time can beal
it, is anticipated with very different emo
tions. The wealthy and gay expect it at
the time to laugh and the time to dance,
while the helpless, wretched poor read or
its front the forlorn inscription, the time
70 weep and the time to mourn To these
it comes laden with all the gloomy aggra
vations of misery, while to the others il
advances decked more gaudily than the
flowery Spring, Or teeming Summer. 9th.
ers look to it as the season of solid and
lasting enjoyment. The laborious hus-
bandman-the father Of large and happy
family, who now enjoys with them the
bountiful rewards Of his tolls, and looks
blithely to the reign of frost and snow, and
the congenial homely pleasures OF rustic
winter, presents as beautiful and felicit-
Gus as can be imagined. The man of bu-
siness too recollects that this is the time
for enjoying the most exalted blessings OF
the happy family circle-the domestic
hearth-socal intercourse. He can ina.
gine this social principle to address him
in the words of native poet:


But know twas mine the secret power
That walked thee at the midnight hour


In bleak November's reign


Twas the spell around thee cast,


When thou did'st hear the hollow blast


In murnur's tell Of pleasures past,