Macon beacon. [volume] (Macon, Miss.) 1859-1995, 1877-10-13

by our own fault Il We have taken the
lovelinRss ef; ana us into heart and soul,
:nd not merely glanced at it idly, it has
bacome an immortal possession; or all
true beauty is poured into our lives out
of the heart Of Him who is the Infinitely
Beautiful, and every gift He bestows is
perfect and indestructible,
Have you ever thought about the
rhating.Of OF one season into another
how gradual and delicate it is,and what a
charm it adds to the year? You can not
tell exactly when midsummer has passed
into autumn, any more than you can
draw sharp line between the red aud
the orange in the rainbow. Nature
fhades her colors more exquisitely than
any artist, and it is in this magical blend.
lug that half her poetry is found. The
four seasons make visible harmony, like
four voices 20 perfectly accordant that
you hear them as one in a song; for there
il an eye-music as well as that which
enters the ear.
Late in August, yot come in your
ralnbles upon some hidden p39l.ot the
woodlands, and find TO your surprise, the
water-lilies atill awake here and there; and
on the margin of the pond, the most mag
niticent blossom of midsummer, the cardi.
nal flower. What contrast they make
that pure whiteness, crystal born, and
that inimitable led which seems burst
of the intensast warmth had hid in the
bosom Of the earth! TIE white clematis,
or virgins bower, hangs its graceful
streamers along the wood paths, yelling
the departing footsteps of Summer, whom
Autumn has already come to meet, scat
tering golden rod about, as an admittauce
fee into the grounds of the detLroned
queen.
Beautiful poems have been written
about the passing Of summer into au-
tumn. Mrs Hemans sings her regret in
one beginning
Thou are bearing hence thy roses,
Glad summer fare thee well
Thou art singing thy last melodies
In every wood and dell"
"a Still Day in Autumn" by Mrs.
Sarah Helen Whitman, take, you into
the dreamy atmosphere of the beautiful
September days, Here are two or three
stanZas OF it;
az love to wander through the woodlands hOary
In the soft light Of an autumna day,
When Summt ga hers up hey robes Of glory
And like dream of leauy slldeS away.
,IIou tbrI o,rl, loynd ar natb shp Ii ngpra
Sereney smiling through the golden mist
Timing the wild grape with her dewy fingers
ill the cool emerald turns to amethystl
"Wam lights are on the sleepy upands waning
Beneath soft ClJ IDS along the hOti71 rolled,
TIL the slant suubeams tn ough their iringes
Bathc all the hills in melancholy gold
In one of Alice Carey's songs of the
autumn days, she writes'that;
Summer from her golden collar slips,
And strays through stubbe-delds' aud moans
aOud--
Save when by fits the warmer air deceiyes
And, stealing hopeful to some sheltered bower,
She lies OH pillows Of the yellow leaves,
And tries the old tunes over Tor an hour
The poet Whittier paints in glowing
words the flowers that blossom between
summer and fall
"Along the roadside, like the flowers Of gold
That tawny Incas for their gaIdeas wrought,
Heavy with sunshine. dToOps the golden rod
And the red pennons OF In, cadlnal flower
Hang motionless upon their upright slaves"
And Lopgfellow addresses autumn as
coming
"Wnh banners, by great gales incessant iRnned,
Rr ghter than brightest silks OF camacand!
Thou standest, like imperial Charlemasne,
Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand 49,
Outstretched with benedictions DER the lanai
Lowell's "Indian Summer Reverie" Is
full of splendid description;
"The bI, ch, most shy and lady-llke Of trees,
Her poverty, as hest she may rerieyes,
And hints at her iOregpne gentllllles
With some saved relies OF hel wealth OF leaves
ulbe syamp-oak, with its royal purple on,
Glares red as blood across the setting SUM-
As lone who prouder to 4 allen iottune cleayesi
He Looks a sachem In red blanket wrapt,"
nT,e maple swamps glow like sunset sea,
Each leaf ripple with It's separate flush
"The yoodblne up the elm's straight stems aspires,
Calling II. harmless, with autumnal fires"
In modern English poets We get, now
and then, glimpse of glowing color.
TennysOn writes OF
Autumn laying here and there
fiery finger on the leaves"
and tells us how one who watches may
see
"The maple burn itself away"
And Allingham must have seen some
thing like our autumn coIors before
writing this stanza
Bright yellow, red, and orange,
The leaves come down In hosts;
The trees are Indian princes,
But soon they turn to ghosts"
Gazing upon the spIendors of the au.
tumn woods, we do not wonder that
poet eXclaims:
"Sorrow and the sea let leaf
Agree not well tegcther
And of the very latest autumn BRYANT
w:ltes' Uw
"Tbe melancholy days have come the saddest Of
n, waiting winds, and naked woods and meadows
brown and sere"
Even after this period Of dimness, the
atmosphere grows warm and spicy and
hazy. and there is a soft flush over the
fields and woods, like the after-glOw of a
gorgeous sunset. II ever there is poetry
IN The air we breathe, it is during the
Indian summer. We all know those
days ,E"T
"when the sound Of dropping nuts is heard though
all the trees are still,
And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the
rill." u ori
Do we not love Bryant's death of
the Flowers" and "Fringed Gentisn,"
as we do these last flowers of the year,
and the beautiful season in which they
bloom, ,snd as we do the port himself, who
was almost the first to open American
ewes to tho loyeliness Of our wild flowers,
and the peculiar beauty Of our own an
sumnal scenery