PILE ON THE WOOD.

PILE on the wood! Pile on the wood!

For furious is the storm,

And there is nothing half so good
As fire, to keep folks warm!

Besides while one sits by the hearth,
Where Peace and Pleasure dwell,

And listens to the strains of mirth
And joy, that round him swell;
Though rude his lot, his pathway drear,
Though sorrow o'er him lower,

He, from his eye, may dash the tear,
And own a happy hour.

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
It is to be thus warm,

Forget not those who friendless roam,
While the fierce blast drives by,

And have no resting-place-no home-
No shelter but the sky!

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

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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
Beam through the starting tears !—
O turn not forth the child of woe,
Nor ask him why he pleads-
If Fate or Folly brought him low,—
It is enough—HE NEEDS!

AN AUTUMNAL FRAGMENT.

Methinks it should have been impossible

Not to love all things in a world so fill'd;
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute, still air

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
Bears soft and fragrant odors on its wing,—
Who can go forth and view the glorious scene,
And murmur, 'Earth is one wide realm of wo

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,
And every bower fill'd with the soothing hum
Of bees, inviting softest slumbers,—who,
That has a heart for happiness, would ask,
Or wish a world more glorious than this?
-In Autumn still our Earth is beautiful!
And though it comes in sadder garb than Spring,
Or Summer, yet of all the Seasons, none,
Methinks, hath voice more eloquent, or speaks
In deeper language to the heart of man.

Go forth into the woods and mark the scene!

The flowers are dead; the leaves are brown and sere;
And if a breeze pass by, they fall in showers
Upon thy head. The birds, to whose soft notes

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,
And dark forebodings of thine own decay
Come o'er thee, they will pass away full soon;
For Hope shall picture to thine eye the Earth