Volume 8 — Indian Summer.

Upon the hills the autumn sun His radiance pours like golden wine; And low, sweet music seems to run Among the tassels of the pine; Around us rings the wild bird's scream; Above, an arch of dark-blue sky; While, like a maiden's summer dream, The mists upon the meadows lie. O peerless Indian Summer hours, With bracing morn and slumbrous noon! How pale are June's bright, flaunting flowers Amid thy wealth of gorgeous bloom. The river ripples softly on, With purple hills upon its breast; And soft cloud-shadows, floating down, Have found a scene of perfect rest. The evening darkens; from the hills The glory fades, so proudly worn; And in the west serenely fills The fair young moon her silver horn; While from the deep'ning blue above The stars steal slowly, singly forth; And night-winds, like the breath of love, Come floating o'er the silent earth. Veronica. Cornwall Landing.