PILE ON THE WOOD. PILE on the wood! Pile on the wood! For furious is the storm, And there is nothing half so good Besides while one sits by the hearth, And listens to the strains of mirth He, from his eye, may dash the tear, O let them sing of sunny isles, Of bright and laughing skies, Where the earth is ever wreath'd in smiles, And fair as Paradise; Where the vales are carpeted with flowers, Whose odors fill the air; Where Love and Beauty build their bowers, Pure, bright, beyond compare; I ask them not-no, far more dear, Though frost-chains bind her rills, And Winter triumphs half the year,Are my New-England's hills! Pile on the wood!. Pile on the wood! For furious is the storm, And while ye feel how sweet, how good Forget not those who friendless roam, And have no resting-place-no home- Alas! ye little ken, I ween, Who quaff the cup of bliss, How deep their sorrows are, and keen, 'In such a night as this!'8 Think ye the beggar has no heart? Think ye he cannot feel? Think ye Misfortune's fiery dart 3 Has chang'd his breast to steel? Then ye have never heard him sigh O'er unforgotten years; Nor have ye seen his grateful eye AN AUTUMNAL FRAGMENT. Methinks it should have been impossible Not to love all things in a world so fill'd; Is Music slumbering on her instrument.-Coleridge. How wonderful, how glorious and grand This world of ours! How full of loveliness! Of majesty and beauty, O how full! In all its various changes, how sublime! When Spring unfolds the tender buds, and plains And mountains, hills and vales, woodlands and meads Are all clad in her bright and beauteous hues; When every grove is vocal with the songs Of Nature's sweetest warblers, and each breeze And misery-a prison-house, where Man Was plac'd to sorrow for some crime!'-And who,When Summer's heavenly garniture is cast O'er Nature's face, and every gale is laden With the delicious sweets of full blown flowers, Go forth into the woods and mark the scene! The flowers are dead; the leaves are brown and sere; It was a bliss to listen,-save the jay And raven, whose lone cry sounds from the top Of some bare oak,-have flown to sunnier climes. -Go forth! and though sad thoughts, perchance, may flit Across thy mind, as thou dost gaze around, |