WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

BY J. R. THOMPSON.

Gone is the golden October

Down the swift current of time,

Month by the poets called sober,

Just for the sake of the rhyme.

Tints of vermilion and yellow

Margined the forest and stream;

Poets then told us 'twas mellow,

How inconsistent they seem!

Now, while the mountain in shadow

Dappled and hazy appears,

While the late corn in the meadow,

Culprit-like, loses its ears—

Get some choice spirits together,

Bring out the dogs and the guns,

Follow the birds o'er the heather,

Where the 'cold rivulet' runs.

Look for them under the cover,

Just as the pole-star at sea

Always is sought by the rover,

Near where the pointers may be.

Yet if your field-tramping brothers

Should not be fellows of mark,

Leave the young partridge for others,

Only make sure of a lark.

Thus shall the charms of the season

Gently throw round you their spell,

Thus enjoy nature in reason,

If in the country you dwell.

But if condemned as a denizen

In a great town to reside,

Take down a volume of Tennyson,

Make him do service as guide;

Borne upon poesy's pinion,

Rise the heights that he gains,

Range over Fancy's dominion,

Walk hypothetical plains.

Soon shall the wintry December

Darken above us the sky—

Winds their old custom remember

All, in a spree, to get high;

And, as they wail through the copses,

Dirge-like and solemn to hear,

Nature's own grand Thanatopsis

Sadly shall strike on the ear.

But all impressions so murky

Instantly banish like care,

Turn to the ham and the turkey

Christmas shall shortly prepare.

None than yourself can be richer,

Seated at night by the hearth,

With an old friend and a pitcher

Lending a share of the mirth.

Then to the needy be given

Aid from your generous boards,

And to a bountiful Heaven

Thanks for the wealth it affords.

[pg 189]