The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1851-09-13

Sad, sweet season! What solemn and tender
rccollecions cluster around thee! With every
changing leaf that flutters IN the breeze, falls
some cherished memory upon our spirit path.
1t is well that we should feel peculiarly tender
and solemn in this melancholy time; for let the
artist, with glowing pencil, tinge as he may the
rudy Bacchus god of his Imagination and call
him autumn, depicting him with hale, ford
health, and the broad scnsuous smile of pleasure,
still, the season with its chilling breath, and
cold pale skies, is melancholy.
The trees-poor naked thngs-how sorrow
they seem, fingns upward their bare, brown
arms in the keen air! They have given us OF
our abundance, shed the fruit that so beautifully
clothed them in purple and in gold, upon the
changing GARTH and now they are turning black
and whitening at the frosty touch Of Autumn.
The flowers in my garden too, are paling
dropping and dying. They turn their sickly
heads to the sun, but alas! in their very hearts
the hoal frost is nesting, gnawing away their
gentle lives, so when the kindly glance Of theil
good physician falls softly upon them, there is nc
longer vitality in their beautiful forms.
They are dying.
And so are many gentle ones of earth: out.
wardly lovely, like those sweet flowers, the an
gel of death is shadowng them with his broad
| know ofone who rcposes upon the couch OF
his last sickness. Stricken in early manhood
with that fell destroyer, consumption, no earthly
skill can rescue him from the grave.
So lovely in life, so moral in example, so gen
tie of heart, it seems strange that he should
know the constant panss of unrelentiny, I'M
plying disease. But Gods ways are not as our
ways.
Ever by his side, stands n true and tender wife.
whose soft hands smooth his ievered brow and
whose whisperings of affection fall gently upon
his spirit.
He has sweet, blue-eycd babe, an only one,
whose arlcss praltle like the mufmur of angels,
wakens new love, often as it falls upon his heart.
Does it not seem to him, at times, hard to
burst these earthly bonds to leave his best loved
to travel the weary world path alonei
Poor Edward. child Ofsutlering soon in triumph
thy voice shall join with the hosts of the redeem
ed around the throne ofGod.
Memories of the dead waken anew in the Au.
tulnn season.
How many mother exclaims-slast autumn
bright eyed babe nestled upon my bosom
this autumn he sleeps calmly upon the cold lap
of carth.o And the wife, with the warm tears
of grief believing her pale cheek, whispers
''last autumn, how fondly leaned upon the arm
OF one whom | loved next to my God, now these
crisp leaves circle about his narrow grave. All,
me, my heart seems breaking at times!
And the father, bowling his gray hairs, because
he behOlds one scat at the table vacant, and one
chair on the hearth-stonc lone and empty, mourns
in the desolalion of his spirlt-''Oh, my son, my
sons last autumn joyous full of life, truly the
light of our eyes he cheered us with his merry
smiles, his innocent mirth; now, alas, he lies |
know not where. Some little mound in that
golden, but treacherous land, some neglected
hilock, round which none but strangers tread,
holds his dear v'rm in its close embrace"
And the brother, too, murmurs--"my sweet
sister; how she bounded along this path, chasing
the whirling red leaves, her ringing laugh echo
ing over the fields, her red cheeks and ruby lips
bearing the glowing impress OF joyous health.
This autumn of glorious evenings, the shining
moonbeams glitter upon her marble maidstone,
and the moss is browning at the foot of her
grave.
And so to all, this sad season brings tender
ness, yet sorrow of heart, for who does not
mourn some dear departed friend.
Boston Olive Branch.