The clouds, the clouds! they are as the lid To the lightning's flashing eye;

And in their fleecy rolls lie hid

The thunder's majesty.

Oh! how their warring is proclaimed
By the shrill blast's battle-song;

And the tempest's deadliest shafts are aimed.
From the midst of the dark cloud's throng.

The clouds, the clouds!-My childish days Are past-my heart is old;

But here and there a feeling stays

That never will grow cold;

And the love of Nature is one of these
That Time's wane never shrouds.
And oft and oft doth my soul find peace
In watching the passing clouds.

Sad Bours.

BY VATTEL.

THE cold winds of Autumn are sighing aroundAnd the leaves, sere and yellow, lie strewn o'er the ground;

By the eddying blasts they are whirled through the

air,

And the tall trees that bore them are naked and

bare.

Ah! thus has a frost nipped the plans which I cherished,

And desolate left me: my hopes have all perished!
Disappointment has tracked me, misfortune assailed;
In vain I resisted, -the storm has prevailed:
The present is misery, the future a void-
Oh, the foliage of hope is for ever destroyed!—
For ever! oh no; to the heart, tree, and plain,
A Spring is approaching; in verdure again

The tall oak shall be clad, and where chill Winter hovered,

With a carpet of green the brown heath shall be covered.

176

MY KNITTING-WORK.

Bethink thee, sad youth! were thy hopes placed aright?

Didst thou rest on thy God? Didst thou pray day and night

For the strength which should bear thee in victory through?

In sickness and sorrow He still will be true.-
Though friends should forsake,—though misfortune
assail thee,

Trust humbly in God,-He never will fail thee:
In the hour of trial, look upward to Heaven,
Ask strength of thy Father, and strength shall be
given.

My Knitting-Work.

YOUTH's buds have oped and fallen from my life's expanding tree,

And soberer fruits have ripened on its hardened

stalk for me;

No longer with a buoyant step I tread my pilgrim

way,

And earth's horizon closer bends from hastening day to day.

MY

KNITTING-WORK.

177

No more with curious questioning I seek the fevered

crowd,

Nor to Ambition's glittering shrine, I feel my spirit

bowed;

But as bewitching flatteries from worldly ones

depart,

Love's circle narrows deeply around my throbbing

heart.

Home joys come thronging round me, bright, blessed, gentle, kind,

The social meal, the fireside book; unfettered mind with mind;

The unsought song that asks no praise, but spirit stirred and free,

Wake up within the thoughtful soul remembered melody;

Nor shall my humble knitting-work pass unregarded here,

The faithful friend, who oft has chased a furrow or

a tear;

Who comes with still unwearied round to cheer my

failing eye,

And bids the curse of ennui from its polished weapons fly.

Companionable knitting-work! when gayer friends depart

178

MY KNITTING-WORK.

Thou hold'st thy station ever, very near unto my heart;

And when no social living tones to sympathy appeal,

I hear a gentle accent from thy softly-clashing steel.

My knitting-work! my knitting-work! a confidant art thou,

As smooth and shining on my lap thou liest beside

me now;

Thou know'st some stories of my thoughts that many may not know,

As round and round the accustomed path, my careful fingers go.

Sweet, quiet, silent, knitting-work! thou interruptest not

My reverie and pleasant thoughts, forgetting and

forgot;

I take thee up; and lay thee down; and use thee as I may,

And not a contradicting word thy burnished lips

will say.

My moralizing knitting-work! thy threads most aptly

show

How evenly around life's span our busy threads

should go;