1830-40.] JAMES W. WARD. 259 Approach no more, Thy humble door ; AUTUMN SONG. And hearts thy innocence reject, The melancholy days are come, That once would shrink from such neglect ; The saddest of the year. And falsehood mocks, and pride Bryant, And folly thee deride ; — The merry-making days are come, Be firm, the promise speaks to thee, The gayest of the year ; " As is thy day thy strength shall be." When summer's dust and heat are past, TTT And the air is sharp and clear. XJIX* When sickness wastes thy feeble blood, The day with social comforts rife, And, as the worm the opening bud, The day of mirth and glee ; Destroys thy life ; The season when earth's jovial saint And a feverish strife Shakes off his lethargy. Is raging in thy aching breast, Robbing thy pillow of its rest ; The wrestling winds, in pastime, heave When every nerve is pained, The trees athlete and stout ; And every fiber strained And underneath their writhing limbs To agony ; — 'tis promised thee. The leaves are whirled about. " As is thy day thy strength shall be." The rabbit gallops, wild with life, rVi With brisk and crackling tread ; When helpless age shall overtake The dogs -with tingling blood pursue — Thy weary years, and thou shalt wake Who mourns the summer fled ? From hope's dear dream, O'er life supreme, The summer, silent and oppressed Whose promised pleasures never came, With dullness and repose ; In youth and manhood, still the same — When, through the languid pulse, the Shalt wake to wither then, blood A blank in sight of men, In weary ripples flows. Tottering and weak ; — God speaks to thee. " As is thy day thy strength shall be." But now, it springs and bounds along. With weariness at strife ; V. Man, like a prancing courser, pants And when in that uncertain hour With energy and life. Comes Death, with Heaven-commissioned power. Wlio mourns the summer? Rather, who To bear thy soul With rapture welcor^ies not Beyond life's goal ; The bracing breeze, the qnicke'ned heart. And life is lingering, loth to go. The di'owsy days forgot ? And the pulse is beating faint and slow. And the soul its weakness feels, The woods with life and joy resound. As eternity reveals The solitude is glad. Its mysteries ; — Faith whispers thee. Music on every bough is heard, " As is thy day thy strength shall be." There's not a creature sad.
