LANGUEDOC.

ONE day, in sunny Languedoc,

I strayed far up the mountain side,

And, resting on a mossy rock,

Surveyed a landscape autumn-dyed.

The stately poplars' silver sheen,

Just ripened into russet gray,

Along the fields where peasants glean,

Is dropping from the boughs away.

Far down the valley yellow leaves

And crimson tinge with mellow light

The busy reapers' gathered sheaves,

And sunset gilds the distant height.

A river winds among the hills,

Along whose margin flowerets bloom;

Fairer than gardened daffodils,

Broadcast they shed a sweet perfume.

But while I look there comes a haze,

Slow rising with the setting sun,

Resting upon the fields of maize,

Like hood upon the passing nun,

Who hears the solemn vesper bell,

That to the ivied chapel calls,

Wending her steps along the dell,

To kneel within those hallowed walls.

In years long gone, without a shock,

I stood where Alpine thunders roll;

Longer the bells of Languedoc

Shall find an echo in my soul.

A. L. H.