POETRY.

THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER.

SUMMER is on the sea ; grey-blue it spreads, Smooth, featureless, save where in grey-white line The murmuring ripples mark the grey-brown sands, Or gleams a phantom sail.

Grey, shadowless, the unsubstantial heads Of rounded promontories, that confine The long-curved bay, Fade into hazy sky Where, here and there, faint grey cloud-ripples lie Hinting the dream-shores of unearthly lands.

—The symphony of Summer swings along In slow and stately measure, strong, restrained, Ebbing as ebbs the tide, unconscious still' Of the destined close : yet heard through all the throng Of Summer's sweet musicians, By ears that list her coming, the sustained Soft throbbing note of Autumn's mellow horn Leads in the rich-toned theme That soon shall ride triumphant at her will O'er dying Summer's song.

Summer is on the hill; its steep side lies Broad-bosomed to the sun. No touch of brown Flecks the green sea of bracken in its folds, Nor dulls the heather's purple : blackberries Here in this sheltered corner, though full-grown, Display no crimson; in the vale below,

Where by the stream the cattle come and go, Tall uncut corn each stone-walled acre holds— And yet—

Was that thy veil across the softened sun, Autumn ? was that thy breath upon my cheek ? Thy whisper in my ear ?—" Her course is run: I come "—as who should to a lover speak Whose fancy had gone straying.

Is it the pause, thrilled by one lingering note, When Nature's hand uplifted stays the breath Of trumpet winds, that soon with ringing throat Shall sound the prelude to the march of death In chords of resignation, peace, and calm?

0 welcome then, thrice welcome, long-desired

Season of peace ! They know thee not at all—

Not thy true self—who think thee only wild, A riotous hoyden, at the beck and call Of hunter, reaper, vintager, and child.

Not thine the ambitious hopes of fevered Spring, Not thine the Summer's disillusioning, Nor Winter's troubled sleep :

Thou hest the sweetness of a task fulfilled—

If not as youth had willed, Yet such as God receives.

They know thee best, who at the turn of life Have lost the thirst for action and for strife, But keep the power of joy ; To them thy ripened fruits, thy trees a-fire, Thy stately clouds, thy mists, thy crystal eves, Intone a solemn canticle of peace,

Of reconcilement and release,

That Life cannot destroy. W. H. A. COWELL.