MORNING. NOVEMBER % ls47.

apottrn.

Antumn Roeds.
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 BY wM. c. BRYANT.

 Ere, in the northern gale, The summer tIesses of the trees are gone. The woods Of autumn, all around our vale

 Have put their glory on.

 The mountains that iffold, ln their wide sweep. the eolord landscape roun1, Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold, That guard the enchanted ground.

 rcam the woods that crown The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, Where the gay company of trees look down On the green fields below.

 My steps aFe not slone In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves gre strowt Along the winding way.

 And far in heaven, the while, The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, POurs out on the fair earth his qae, smile,--- The sweetest of the year.

 Where now the solemn shade. Eerdnre and gloom where many branches meet: So grateful, when inc noon of summer made The valleys sick with Aeai'

 Q. Autumn. why 90 soon Depart the hues that make thy forests glad; Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, And leave thee wild and sad!

 An twere lot too blessd Forever in thy color'd shades to stray; Amid the kisses of the suff southwest

 To rove and dream for aye;

 And leave the vain low strife That makes men mad the lug for wealth and power The passions and the cares that wither life. And waste its little hour.