13 NOVEMBER 1886, Page 15

NOVEMBER AT THE LAKES.

Tin wild wood-cherry can no longer blush,

Nor chestnuts stand in heavy leaf of gold, Bat as the clouds at noon are upward rolled, Gold-red the mountains gleam ; through deepest hush Now mellowly the fuller streamlets gash, Now yellowly Helvellyn fold on fold Slopes to the sunset, and the stars are bold

To shine before the hills have lost their flush.

The long lakes glance among their amber reeds

Pure liquid azure with a, look of March ; Green in the glen, aloft, in splendour burns To warm the heights, the frost-o'ertaken larch ; And while the rook his acorn-banquet speeds

Through dwindling leaves, the cushat mourns and mourns.

H. D. RAWNSLEY.