OCTOBER, 1861.

NOT changeful April, with her suns and showers,
Pregnant with buds, whose birth the genial hours
Of teaming May will give to life and light
Rich in young beauty, odorous and bright.

Not rose-crowned June, in trailing robes of bloom,
Her flowery censers breathing rich perfume,
Her glorious sunshine, and her bluest skies,
Her wealth of dancing leaves where zephyr sighs.

Nor fervid July, in her full-blown charms,
Shedding the odorous hay with sun-browned arms,
Nor glowing August, with her robe unbound,
With ripening grain, and juicy fruitage crowned.

Nor thee, September, though thine orchards glow
With fruits, ripe, rich, and ruddy—laying low
The yellow grain with gleaming sickles keen,
With jest and laugh, and harvest song between.

I sing October, month of all the year,
To poet's soul and calm deep feeling dear;
Her chastened sunshine, and her dreamy skies
With tender magic charm my heart and eyes.

In silvery haze the purple hills are swathed,
In dripping dews the faded herbage bathed-
Red Robin trills his winter-warning ditty;
His big bright eye envoking crums and pity.

From fading woodlands, ever pattering down,
Come many tinted leaves-red, yellow, brown;
The rustling carpet with slow lingering feet
I thoughtful tread, inhaling odours sweet.

The very soul of quietude is breathing

O'er field and lake, with sweetest peace enwreathing My tranquil soul, from founts of blissful feeling, Sweet silent tears adown my cheeks are stealing.

Spirit of meekness brooding in the air,
On thy soft pinions waft my lowly prayer,
That I may meet, calm, meek, resigned, and sober,
My life's decline-my solemn-last October.

SUMMER VOICES.

BENEATH the shining trembling leaves that drape the bowers of June,

I sit and list with raptured ear the sweetly-varied tune Of Nature's thousand melodies-above, below, aroundSweet sights, sweet scents, but sweeter far the mingling charms of sound.

The silvery lapse of tinkling streams; the river's rushing voice;

The lucent waves that lap the shore in murmuring tones rejoice;

The fitful cadence of the breeze that skims with silken

wings

O'er bending waves of odorous hay, and through the woodland sings;

The tell-tale voice beloved of Spring; the wail of forest

dove;

The thousand swelling warbling throats that sing of bliss and love;

The voice of woods, in soft commune with twilight's

dewy airs,

Where parent thrush on darkling bough beguiles his brooding cares ;

The shadows fall-Oh, gentle bird, thy liquid voice is mute;

But, hark! that sweetly-thrilling strain breathed from the plaintive flute;

No

eye

sees

but thine, soft star of love, the rapt musician

Slow wandering by the lonely lake beneath the sleeping trees.

Now, Scotia! pour thy native airs so wildly, simply,

sweet,

For this the hour and this the scene when rustic maidens meet

By cottage door-by village spring, o'erhung with wilding rose,

Hark from their lips the Doric lay in gushing music

flows.

Sweet Summer sounds, I love ye all; but, dearestholiest-best

The song of praise from cottage hearth that hails the Sabbath rest;

The birds-the streams-the breeze--the song to earthly sounds are given,

This mounts the wings of Summer morn, and singing, flies to heaven!

THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND.

QUEEN of hundred ocean Isles,
Rich in scenic grandeurs!
Land of forest, hill, and glen,

Where the tourist wanders.
Land of torrent, lake, and stream,
Wild sea-cliff and corry;
Land of mist and legend old,

Music, song, and story.

Land that erst by thousands poured
From hovel, hut, and shieling,
Loyal men, and brimmed their hearts

With high, heroic feeling.

Where, Oh where, thy thousands now?

Echo, wildly wailing,

Gives mournful answer, Where, Oh where,

Are our life's springs failing?

No;

the red deer yet are rife In dingle, copse, and forest,

But the human form hath fail'd

"When our needs are sorest." *
Titled Nimrod's keepers, rude,
With their canine allies,
Hold usurp'd dominion now

O'er thy hills and valleys.

* Scarcity of men at the beginning of the Crimean War.