Spirit of the times. [volume] (Ironton, Ohio) 1853-1858, 1853-11-22
N 0 v L nj B Il r.
by $. w. IRWIN.

ana 10 the IaDUlLS ICauj
The robin and the wren have flown,
And from the shrub the jay,
And from the wood top calls the crow,
Through all the gloomy day.
Hold, says the rcader,-that will do; !
have read these gloomy lines full often
nough;-ifyou have anything glad, and
gay, and Joyous, like the spring. time.
will read il; but am tired Of this wall.
ing, dirgeike November poetry-th's sad
and mournlul sen,imen,aism- but, dear
Young reader, is it not November! and
If we have November weather, may we
not have November poetrY?-and No
vcmber feelings, and may we not some
times be,
"As sad as night, merely for wantonnessF'
Nature is not all spring.time; life is not
all pleasure, and gaye,y. and sladness.
Every season brings with it its aPpropri'
ate mood and temperament. and every
scene has its own peculiar moral. It's
not meet to be sad at the bridal altar,
nor gay in a graveyard-and when No.
vember comes how appropriate i; is to
ask,
"Wherc are the Aowcrs,t the fair young flowers,
That lately sprang and stood;
In brighter light and softer alf--
A beauteous sisterhood ~
And he is destitute Of both sentiment and
sympathy who does not sigh in the tender
and beautiful language Of Bryant
"Alns they all are in their graves,
The gentle race of flowers,
Are lying in their lowly. beds,
With the fair and god of ours.
The rain is falling where they lie
But the cold November rain,
Calls moi from ont the gloomy carth,
The lovely ones again.
"The wall flower and the violet
They pcrishcd long ago!
And the bricr. rose, and the orchis died,
Amid the summers glow;
But on the hill the golden rod,
And the aser in the wood,
And the yellow sun flower by the brook,
In autumn beauty stood, len,
Till fell the frost from the clear cold heav
As falls the plague on men-
And the brightness of their smile was gone,
From upland, glade and glen.
And now, when comes the calm mild, day,
As still such days will come,
TO call the squirrel and the bee
From out their winter home;
When the sound Of dropping nuts is heard,
Though all the trees are still
And twinkle in the smoky light
The waters Of the ril,
The south wind searches for the flowers
Whose fragrance late he bore,
And siehs to find them in the wood.
And by the stream no more"
Are not these beautiful lines?-And dc
they not find and echo in cur own spir'
;ts! Have we not felt, but wanted Ian.
guage to express, these sentiments, since
the November that succeeded our earli'
est sorrow? All! these arc sweet thoughts
and sweet words. They are precisely
the sentiments that fill our own hearts
the words that we have time and a
gain, almost, but not quite, uttered
hence these lines are our own; and we
have thanked Bryant thousand times
that he has written them for US. Bu
we have quoted the whole piece, except
,he last stanza, and it is too good to be
omitted, although it was only intended
for those who can understand it.
And then think Of one, who in
Her youthful beauty died;
The fair. meek blossom that grew up
And faded by my side.
In the moist ground we laid her,
When the forest cast the leaf;
And we wept that one so lovely,
Should have life so brief;
Yet not unmeet it was that one,
Like that young friend Of ours,
So gentle and so beautiful,
Should perish with the nowersl
All. YES! who does not think Of the deat
in November,
500 "The departed! the departed
They visit us in Dreams"
They visit US in dreams in all seasons
butihey come in broad daylight in No
ysubei, unbtlden they como! and tina
TOO when we are not dreaming, OF If so
when We are dreaming with our eyes o
pen.
"The south wind searches for the flowers
Whose fragrance late he bore,
Ana Asishsto find them in the wood
And by The stream no more"
.ti.l .fF' ltt '--.h0t N'iifH 'a