MIGRATION.

AUTUMN was creeping on apace,

The winds were moaning sad and low,

The sun shone down from his dwelling-place,

But no longer I felt his cheering glow;

And the faded leaves on the water's edge,

Like withered hopes on the stream of years,

Dropped from each overhanging hedge

And were borne along to other spheres.

The courtier bee had ceased to seek

The honeyed drops that he alone

Has learned to cherish and to take.

I looked for blossoms, they were gone;

In all the fields I counted none

Left untouched by the hand of blight.

I saw the birds far overhead

As to a warmer clime they fled,

And longed to follow their southern flight.