desert, unpeopled by the most minute living creature. How delightful it is to walk abroad at this period at eventide! how soothing to one's feelings is such an hour! everywhere the face of the landscape is tinged with that grey and sober hue which belongs only to an evening in Autumn. How the eye delights to dwell on the many-coloured hues of the trembling foliage, rustling in the fitful sighing of the breeze; on the golden lustre which the departing rays of the setting sun shed upon the yellow stubbles; and the ear is regaled with the mournful call of the partridge, the plaintive warbling of the thrush and blackbird, and the cooing of the ringdove-all uniting in their tribute of gratitude and praise to their Divine and Almighty Creator.

In a brief period the voice of these charming songsters is heard no more; for the season of frosts and storms is fast approaching, and many of these beautiful warblers, ere Spring arrives, are cut off either by the snares of the fowler, or perish during the protracted cold of winter. This season is, therefore, typical of decay and death. Generation after generation succeed, and are cut down even as the corn is cut by the sickle of the reaper; and, in the words of Ossian, are like the waves of ocean; like the leaves of woody Morven, they pass away in the rustling blast, and other leaves lift their green heads on high.'* With the daily retirement of the sun, and the consequent increase of night, those mysterious worlds which have been eclipsed by the superior effulgence of the summer's sun, begin once more to make their appearance, and those that delight to peruse the poetry of Heaven' have at this period ample opportunity to pursue so interesting a study. There is no period of the year so much in accordance with the tastes and feelings of the studious and contemplative as Autumn. It is the season both of tranquillity and storms-the former to remind us of the dying glories of departed Summer, and

*Macpherson's Ossian, Berrathon, Vol. 1.

the latter to warn us of the coming severities of a long and dreary Winter.

It is when solitary, and alone by the sea-beaten shore,' that I love to hear the voice of storms, to view the vast expanse of ocean gilt by the glorious rays of the departing sun-to hear the screams of cormorants and the wild sea-mew' from out their savage cliffsit is then, when refreshed by the gently agitated state of the atmosphere, the stillness at intervals broken by the sullen roar of the 'voiceful sea,' whose billows are idly dashing themselves against the projecting headlands; in the waning splendour of the western sky, and in the lengthening shadows which are diffusing themselves over the face of the landscape, that I feel, in the aspect of every thing which surrounds me, an enthusiasm which, though perhaps bordering on the romantic, is certainly felt by every one of keen perceptions, and of a philosophic turn of mind. Still more forcibly do I feel these sensations, when, as is frequently the case at this period of the year, the winds are high and revelling around us. We hear the elemental uproar without, we hear the heavy rain-drops pattering against the casement; the winds shake our dwelling in their sportive fray, sometimes coming in a mighty rushing blast, and then gently wailing through the crevices of the windows, and then we listen, and hear the sound thereof, but cannot tell whence it cometh, and whither it goeth;' and though we enjoy the sensations which they are calculated to excite, yet we feel them, as it were, the accents of the passing Deity.

To the naturalist, also, this season affords an abundant source of gratification and study, especially in viewing that singular phenomenon, the migration of birds. There is a mystery attends this which (particularly the migration of the swallow tribe) has not hitherto been satisfactorily explained; and whether they take their departure to distant climes, or remain concealed in some nearer and secure retreat, it is alike calculated to strike us with wonder and admiration.

'Amusive birds! say where your hid retreat, When the frost rages, and the tempests beat; Whence your return, by such nice instinct led, When Spring, soft season, lifts her blooming head; Such baffled searches mock man's prying pride, The God of Nature is your secret guide! '* Autumn may likewise be termed a season of superstition. I allude to the various meteoric phenomena which are frequently observed towards the close of this season, and which, in the eyes of the superstitious vulgar, are often believed to be the forerunners of war and pestilence, disease and death. It is at this period of the year, also, when the brilliant coruscations of the Aurora Borealis fill us with wonder and delight, and when the treacherous and deceitful ignis-fatuus misleads the unwary traveller, and sometimes, by being the occasion of fatal accidents, have given additional terrors to the scene, and stamped the neighbourhood of such an occurrence with a tinge of supernatural horror. That Autumn is a season calculated to excite melancholy sensations in persons of a morbid temperament, I will not venture to deny. Every thing around them wears a cheerless and desolate aspect; and the almost universal decay upon the face of Nature, they view with a jaundiced imagination, without attempting to draw a single conclusion of a cheering and consolatory character. They forget that in this temporary desolation there lie the seeds of life and renovation, telling us of a spring beyond the grave; and that amid the vicissitudes and troubles which many of us are fated to endure, nothing affords us in the hour of trial and temptation so much consolation, than that this can but endure for a brief period; and as the seasons run their course, so may sunshine and prosperity once more return to sweeten the ills of life, and enable us to attend to those things which concern our everlasting peace, before they are for ever hidden from our eyes.'

One of the most delightful Autumns I ever remem* White's Natural History of Selborne, 8vo. edit. Vol. I. p. 119.

ber to have spent was at Clifton, in the vicinity of Bristol. I recall the sensations of pleasure I then experienced with delight. The rich luxuriance of the hanging woods, clothing the stupendous rocks and precipices upon the banks of the Avon, in all the splendour of their autumnal livery; the distant mountains of Glamorgan and Monmouthshire forming a dim outline in the back of the landscape, with King Road and its fine fleet of Indiamen in the more immediate foreground, waiting a favourable breeze to waft them to the far-famed El Dorado's of the western sea, formed a scene of the most delightful description.. Standing at the signal post on the downs, you see, about a gunshot from you, beetling on the summit of a tremendous precipice, 'Cooke's Folly,' if I remember right, an octagonal tower with a small building attached to it (built I believe, by an eccentric person of that name); in the distance, a little more to the right, stand the time worn ruins' of Blaize Castle, with the undulating and romantic woods of King's Weston leading towards Pill, a small village at the mouth of the Avon. On your left, on the opposite side of the river, perched above the woods, stands Leigh Court, a beautiful villa belonging to a Mr. Miles, with the sweet village of Abbot's Leigh in its immediate vicinage. In this imperfect description I have not enumerated half the various beauties of the scene, and which would require a far abler pen than mine to do them adequate justice. It has been said that the scenery on the banks of the Avon resembles that in the vale of Tempe, in Greece; if so, it must be an enchanting spot. Having had an opportunity of viewing this romantic scenery, both in Summer and Autumn, I give the decided preference to the latter, as affording a much greater variety to the surrounding landscape; the various autumnal tints richly blending with the darker shades of such trees as are unwilling to part with their summer dress. It thus makes, altogether, a scene which for grandeur, richness, and beauty, is hardly to be equalled in this island. I must now conclude this VOL. II. Oct. 1830.

P

somewhat desultory paper; at another period may perhaps step across the water into the sister province, and describe some of the romantic scenery which is to be found on the iron-bound coast of Glamorgan.

ANSELM.

SONG.

MEET me, love, when the moonbeams fling
Their smiles on the ocean's breast,

And the bright-hued rose of the wanton spring
By the zephyr is fondly carest.

Meet me,

love, by the old oak tree,

Where oft we have met before,

And I'll glide with thee over the deep blue sea,
To a distant but happier shore.

We have past, love, darkly and sad along
A thorny and desolate way,

Uncheered in our path by the joy-telling song,
Unillumined by pleasure's bright ray.

But meet me, oh! meet me, where oft we have met,
And the tear-drop shall never fall more,

For ere morning's dews the bright flow'rets can wet, We shall be on a happier shore.

J. KNOX.

FORTH TO THE WORLD THE TRUMPET'S CALL.

FORTH to the world the trumpet's call,

Its notes of war is sending;

I'll win me fame, or dying, fall,

My country's cause defending.

Fame's laurel crown may still be mine,
For me she may be twining

A wreath that will for ever shine,
Though I'm in death reclining.
Then went he forth who sang so well,
His thoughts on conquest bending;
He conquered-but the hero fell
His country's cause defending.

W. C. O.