Washington telegraph., 1856-10-15
o CT o B e B

Ayl thou art welcome, heavens delicious breath
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow
brief.
And the year smiles as it draws near its DEATH
Wind of the sunny South On. still delay,
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to good old age, released from care
Journeyins in long serenity away
In such bright late quiet. would thatI
Might wear out life like thee mid bowers and
books.
And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
And murmur of kind voices ever nigh,-
And when nv last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men as thou dost pass
Three years ago October found US a
weary and dispirited sojourner IN pes
tilence-stricken town. The dull and
heavy hours were dragged out at the
bedside of some victim of the Foe of
the South, OF glided noiselessly over our
head upon their leaden pinions, while we
were wrapped in dreamless and despair
ing sleep We neither thought of, nor
cared for the morrow-not knowing but
that to ourself, it might bring the sum-
mons of that tireless shade, whose dread
mandate was every day obeyed by some
one of those by whom we were surround
ed.
II was a time + for tears
And the memory of those painful vigils
fingers with us, like the faint remem-
brance which recalls hOrrid DREAM
1t came again, and yet again, and now by
the mercy of God We look out upon the
forest trees and see the brown leaves
bearing silent but sure witness that the
season Of decay is with US yet once more
What 1t We retOuch an idle sketch which
We penned in the chamber of friend
VINO mas long since gone, TO
The undiscovered co:ntry, from whose bourne
No traveller returns =
To our mind there has ever been some
thing peculiarly beautiful in this season,
lingering over the voiceless melody, the
dreamy pathos of the lines which we place
above How happily they point the
minds eye to the days of Z" the sere and
yellow leaf what a perfect transcript
are they of the golden hours of the sea-
son, which yet, aud only for short time,
makes earth lovely with charm, richer
than the glory of summer, and tenderer
than the gladness of the days of early
spring.
1t is the time for quiet thought. The
genius of silence filings her enchanted
mantle over the land, and wrapped in. its
shadowy folds, we WOO the spirit of dreams
and she brings US upon noiseless wings,
bright reveries of the past.
Our fancy becomes wanderer; many
a weary league is traversed with the swift
ness of thought, and We are far away,
where gentle stream murmurs softly
past happy home, and kindly voices
"-SeAS iuuctC III OuI CudIueU
ear than Genius ever won from the Lyre
of Art, or Fashion listened to within the
gilded halls. And along the paths, that
alas for it-haye heard no football of ours
for many years, We wander by the side Of
those, who, like ourself, in the stern les
Sons which the world ever teaches, have
almost forgotten the happy hours through
which we marked the flight of joys that
will return no more forever. But this
Is only an oft told tale-a wander dream
ing of his early home; and yet we may
De pardOned, for sure are We that but few
can be found who do not thus at times re-
turn with memory to the trysting places
OF their youth and find a pleasure, albeit
melancholy one,
In thinking on the days that are no moren
and there is, to us, a far purer pleasure in
The recollections connected with this sea.
son than with any other. For they are