and linked them by so many delightful associations with the
productions of nature, that they are as real to the mind's eye, as
their green magical circles to the outer sense. It would have been
a pity for such a race to go extinct, even though they were but as
the butterflies that hover about the leaves and blossoms of the
visible world. I am, my dear friend, yours most truly, T. HOOD."]


I.

'Twas in that mellow season of the year
When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves
Till they be gold,--and with a broader sphere
The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves;
When more abundantly the spider weaves,
And the cold wind breathes from a chillier clime;--
That forth I fared, on one of those still eves,
Touch'd with the dewy sadness of the time,
To think how the bright months had spent their prime,


II.

So that, wherever I address'd my way,
I seem'd to track the melancholy feet
Of him that is the Father of Decay,
And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet;--
Wherefore regretfully I made retreat
To some unwasted regions of my brain,
Charm'd with the light of summer and the heat,