Part 2 — THE AUTUMN WIND.

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BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.

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The Autumn wind is rushing by,

And in its wild career

It beareth on its mighty wings

The beauty of the year;

And mournfully its deep dirge rings

Upon the spirit’s ear.

How drear the sound that sweeps along

The forest and the vale,

Those solemn tones, they chill the heart,

Like plaintive funeral wail.

I’ll sit me down on these dead leaves,

And question of its tale.

“What tidings hast thou—where hast been

Since last thy voice I heard,

Since last the quivering of thy wings

The leafless branches stirred,

And frighted from its moss-clad home

Each gentle nestling bird?

“Ah, wherefore didst thou swell the storm

When good ships went to sea;

And why was bent the tall, stout mast—

The cordage rent by thee;

And why, when shattered bark went down,

Thy shout of victory?

“Oh! bring back tidings of the lost

To many an anxious ear;

Bear to the mourner, mighty wind,

The last words thou didst hear;

One token give—some simple things

From those who were so dear.

“And tell us—” “Mortal, why dost ask

These tidings of the wind—

Dost think that of the unfathomed deep

The secrets thou shall find?

As well might hope, with filmy thread,

The storm’s wild rage to bind.

“If o’er the ocean I have swept,

And lashed its waves to heaven,

While high before me on the surge

The hapless bark was driven,

And loud and fearful rose the cry

Of men from warm life riven.

“Or if I kissed the pale, calm brow

Of some fair bride of death,

And colder made the cold pure snow

Where froze her heart aneath,

And mingled with mine own low moan,

Her last faint flitting breath.

“If I have stilled the infant’s sob

Upon its mother’s breast,

While closer, closer in her arms

Her treasured one was pressed,

Until my wailing lullaby

Had hushed the babe to rest.

“I did His bidding who doth hold

In his all-powerful hand

The whirlwind that hath swept in might

O’er ocean-wave and land;

I questioned not why such things were—

Can mortal understand?

“Enough, that thou hast wept the dead,

Since last was heard my tone;

Enough, that thy poor human heart

Has sorrowed not alone;

Enough, that when thou hearest now,

I tell of treasures gone.

“There has been beauty in my path,

And I have whispered low

To rose-buds till their cheek has flushed;

Have fanned eve’s crimson glow,

And dimpled founts, where sunbeams danced,

And mingled with their flow.

“Many a shout from a merry troop

Of children at their play,

And gladsome tone of mirth and joy

Have I borne in my flight away;

And odors of heaven my wings have caught

Where the holy knelt to pray.

“Do thou His bidding—question not,

Nor cower like frighted dove,

There’s a home where the storm-winds never sweep,

In the heaven of heavens above.

Thy jewels are garnered in that bright land

With their God—and God is Love.”