morrow.

* * * *

SUMMER.

Sweet incense from the heart of myriad flowers,
Sweet as the breath that parts the lips of love,
Floats softly upward through the sunny hours,
Hiving its fragrance in the warmth above:
Big with rich store, the teeming earth yields up
The increase of her harvest treasury;
While golden wine, from Nature's brimming cup,
Quickens her pulse to love-toned melody.
Full choired praise from countless glad throats break,
More dazzling bright doth gleam night's dewy eyes;
A newer witchery doth the great moon wake;
More mellow languisheth the bending skies:
Thus, through the heart Life's Summer-sun comes stealing,
Spring's wildest promise in Love's fulness sealing.

* * * *

AUTUMN.

Athwart the ripe, red sunshine fitfully,
Like withering doubts through Love's warm, flushing breast,
With wailing voice of saddest augury,
Sweeps from the frozen North a phantom guest.
With icy finger on each yellow leaf
Writes he the history of the dying year.
Love's harvest reaped, the grainless stalk and sheaf--
Like plundered hearts, unkerneled of sweet cheer--
Lie black and bare, exposed to rudest tread:
While still, with semblance of the Summer brave,
Soft, pitying airs float o'er its cold death-bed;
Bright flowers and motley leaves flaunt o'er its grave:
As in Earth's Autumn--so, through weeping showers,
Love sighs a mournful requiem over bygone hours.

* * * *

WINTER.

Locked in a close embrace, like that of Death,
Earth's pulseless heart reposes, mute and chill;
Within her frozen breast, her frozen breath,
In its forgotten fragrance, slumbereth still:
Sapless her veins, and numb her withered arms,
That still, outstretched, stand grim mementos drear
Of her once gorgeous and full-leaved charms.
Of flower and fruit, all increase of the year:
Voiceless the river, in ice fretwork chained;
Hushed the sweet cadences of bird and bee;
Dumb the last echo to soft music trained,
And warmth and life are a past memory:
Thus, buried deep within dull Winter's rime,
Love dreamless sleeps through the long Winter-time.

* * * * *

LIFE IN THE WOODS.--A SONG.

BY GEO. P. MORRIS.

A merry life does the hunter lead!
He wakes with the dawn of day;
He whistles his dog--he mounts h