Its bosom, silent, and immense. The hues

Of flickering day have from its surface died,
Leaving it garbed in sunless majesty.

With bosoming branches round, yon village hangs
Its row of lofty elm-trees; silently

Towering in spiral wreaths to the soft sky,

The smoke from many a cheerful hearth ascends,
Melting in ether.

As I gaze, behold,

The evening star illumines the blue south,
Twinkling in loveliness. O! holy star,
Thou bright dispenser of the twilight dews,
Thou herald of Night's glowing galaxy,
And harbinger of social bliss! how oft,
Amid the twilights of departed years,
Resting beside the river's mirror clear,
On trunk of massy oak, with eyes upturned
To thee in admiration, have I sat,

Dreaming sweet dreams till earth-born turbulence
Was all forgot; and thinking that in thee,
Far from the rudeness of this jarring world,
There might be realms of quiet happiness!

THERE is an "even-tide" in the year,

-a season, as we

now witness, when the sun withdraws his propitious light, when the winds arise, and the leaves fall, and nature around us seems to sink into decay. It is said, in general, to be the season of melancholy; and if, by this word, be meant that it is the time of solemn and of serious thought, it is undoubtedly the season of melancholy; yet, it is a melancholy so soothing, so gentle in its approach, and so prophetic in its influence,

that they, who have known it, feel, as if instinctively, that it is the doing of God, and that the heart of man is not thus finely touched, but to fine issues.

1. It is a season, which tends to wean us from the passions of the world. Every passion, however base or unworthy, is yet eloquent. It speaks to us of present enjoyment; - it tells us of what men have done, and what men may do; and it supports us everywhere by the example of many around us. When we go out into the fields in the evening of the year, a different voice approaches us. We regard, even in spite of ourselves, the still but steady advances of time.

A few days ago, and the summer of the year was grateful, and every element was filled with life, and the sun of heaven seemed to glory in his ascendant. He is now enfeebled in his power; the desert no more "blossoms like the rose;" the song of joy is no more heard among the branches; and the earth is strewed with that fōliage, which once bespoke the magnificence of summer. Whatever may be the passions which society has awakened, we pause, amid this apparent desolation of nature. We sit down in the lodge "of the wayfaring man in the wilderness," and we feel that all we witness is the emblem of our own fate. (Such also, in a few years, will be our own condition. The blossoms of our spring, the pride of our summer will also fade into decay; and the pulse that now beats high, with virtuous or with vicious desire, will gradually sink, and then must stop forever.

We rise from our meditations, with hearts softened and subdued, and we return into life as into a shadowy scene, where we have "disquieted ourselves in vain." Such is the first impression, which the present scene of nature is fitted to make upon us. It is this first impression, which intimidates the thoughtless and the gay; and, indeed, if there were no other reflections that followed, I know not that it would be the

*Pron. strōde.

business of wisdom to recommend such meditations. It is the consequences, however, of such previous thoughts, which are chiefly valuable; and among these there are two, which may well deserve our consideration.

2. It is the peculiar character of the melancholy which such seasons excite, that it is general. It is not an individual remonstrance; it is not the harsh language of human wisdom, which too often insults, while it instructs us. When the winds of autumn sigh around us, their voice speaks not to us only, but to our kind; and the lesson they teach us is not that we alone decay, but that such also is the fate of all the generations of man. 66 'They are the green leaves of the tree of the desert, which perish and are renewed."

In such a sentiment, there is a kind of sublimity mingled with its melancholy; our tears fall, but they fall not for ourselves; and, although the train of our thoughts may have begun with the selfishness of our own concerns, we feel that, by the ministry of some mysterious power, they end in awakening our concern for every being that lives. Yet a few years, we think, and all that now bless, or all that now convulse humanity will also have perished. The mightiest pageantry* of life will pass, the loudest notes of triumph or of conquest will be silent in the grave;· the wicked, wherever active, "will cease from troubling," and the weary, wherever suffering, "will be at rest."

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Under an impression so profound, we feel our own hearts better. The cares, the animosities, the hatreds, which society may have engendered, sink unperceived from our bosoms. In the general desolation of nature, we feel the littleness of our own passions; we look forward to that kindred evening, which time must bring to all; we anticipate the graves of those we hate, as of those we love. Every unkind passion falls, with the leaves that fall around us; and we return slowly

* Pron. păd-jun-tre.

to our homes, and to the society which surrounds us, with the wish only to enlighten or to bless them.

3. If there were no other effects of such appearances of nature upon our minds, they would still be valuable,

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they would teach us humility, and with it they would teach us charity. In the same hour in which they taught us our own fragility, they would teach us commiseration for the whole family of man. But there is a further sentiment, which such scenes inspire, more valuable than all; and we know little the designs of Providence, when we do not yield ourselves, in such hours, to the beneficent instincts of our imagination.

It is the unvarying character of nature, amid all its scenes, to lead us at last to its Author; and it is for this final end, that all its varieties have such dominion upon our minds. We are led, by the appearances of spring, to see his bounty, and we are led, by the splendors of summer, to see his greatness. In the present hours, we are led to a higher sentiment; and, what is most remarkable, the very circumstances of melancholy are those which guide us most securely to put our trust in him.

We are witnessing the decay of the year;-we go back, in imagination, and find that such, in every generation, has been the fate of man; we look forward, and we see that to such ends all must come at last; we lift our desponding eyes in search of comfort, and we see above us, One, "who is ever the same, and to whose years there is no end." Amid the vicissitudes of nature, we discover that centre majesty, "in whom there is no variableness nor shadow of turning." We feel that there is a God; and, from the tempestuous sea of life, we hail that polar star of nature, to which a sacred instinc had directed our eyes, and which burns with undecaying ray to lighten us among all the darkness of the deep.

From this great conviction, there is another sentiment which succeeds. Nature, indeed, yearly perishes; but it is yearly renewed. Amid all its changes, the immortal spirit of Him

that made it remains; and the same sun which now marks with his receding ray the autumn of the year, will again arise in his brightness, and bring along with him the promise of the spring and all the magnificence of summer.

Under such convictions, hope dawns upon the sadness of the heart. The melancholy of decay becomes the very herald of renewal ; — the magnificent circle of nature opens upon our view; we anticipate the analogous resurrection of our be ing; we see beyond the grave a greater spring, and we people it with those who have given joy to that which is passed. With such final impressions, we submit ourselves. gladly to the destiny of our being. While the sun of mortality sinks, we hail the rising of the Sun of Righteousness, and, in hours when all the honors of nature are perishing around us, we prostrate ourselves in deeper adoration before Him who "sitteth upon its throne."

Let, then, the young go out, in these hours, under the descending sun of the year into the fields of nature. Their hearts are now ardent with hope,—with the hopes of fame, of honor, or of happiness; and in the long perspec'tive which is before. them, their imagination creates a world where all may be enjoyed. Let the scenes which they now may witness, moderate, but not extinguish their ambition :—while they see the yearly desolation of nature, let them see it as the emblem of mortal hope; while they feel the disproportion between the powers they possess, and the time they are to be employed, let them carry their ambitious eye beyond the world; and while, in these sacred solitudes, a voice in their own bosom corresponds to the voice of decaying nature, let them take that high decision which becomes those who feel themselves the inhabitants of a greater world, and who look to a being incapable of decay.

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