We must leave you all;
On the tree and on the flower
Comes the evening’s twilight hour,
And upon each forest bower
Evening’s shadows fall.
Part we now, but through our life,
Hush of peace or jar of strife,
Memory will still be rife
With glad thoughts of thee;
Wheresoe’er our feet may stray,
Memory will retain this day;
Fare thee well-we haste away,
Farewell rock and tree!
Up from the lake a mist ascends,
And forms a sea of cloud above,
That hangs o’er earth as if in love
With its green vales; then quick it send
Its blessings down in cooling rain,
On hill and valley, rock and plain.
Nature, delighted with the shower,
Sends up the fragrance of each flower;
Birds carol forth their cheeriest lays,
The green leaves rustle forth their praise.
Soon, one by one, the clouds depart,
And a bright rainbow spans the sky,
That seems but the reflective part
Of all below, fixed there on high.
AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN AUTOMATON.
Early one bright summer morning, as I was perambulating beneath those noble trees that stand the body-guard of one of the most beautiful places of which city life can boast,—Boston Common,—I encountered a man who attracted my special attention by his apparent carelessness of action, and humble bearing. He looked dejected likewise, and I seated myself on the stone seat beside him.
He took me by the sleeve of my coat, and whispered in my ear, “I’m an Automaton, sir.” A few more words passed between us, after which, at my request, he gave me a sketch of his life, which I propose to give you in language as nearly his own as possible.
“I was born. I came into this world without any consent of my own, sir, and as soon as I breathed the atmosphere of this mundane state I was bandaged and pinned, and felt very much as a mummy might be supposed to feel. I was then tossed from Matilda to Jerusha, and from Jerusha to Jane, and from Jane to others and others. I tried to laugh, but found I could n’t; so I tried to cry, and succeeded most admirably in my effort.
“‘He’s sick,’ said my aunt; and my aunt called a doctor, who, wise man, called for a slip of paper and an errand-boy.
“The next I knew, my head was being held by my aunt, and the doctor was pouring down my throat, which he distended with the handle of a spoon, a bitter potion; pouring it down without any consent of my own, sir.
“Whether I got better or worse I don’t know; but I slept for a time, and had a strange dream, of a strange existence, upon which I seemed to have suddenly entered.