IN the twilight of November,

When my fire is burning low,

And each faint and famished ember

Flickers with a dying glow,

Ah! how fondly I remember

Summer scenes that come and go!

Far away my fancy flying

Sees a spectral camp-fire shine;

From the deeps around me lying

Breathes the perfume of the pine;

And of every sound that's sighing

Speaks the spirit unto mine,

Till I hear the rushing river,

Singing birds, and sighing trees,

That with mellow murmur quiver

'Neath the gentle breathing breeze,

And the surging shock and shiver

Of the cold and throbbing seas.

Lies a lonely lake revealing

Where the moss-hung hemlocks wreathe

Softly-tinted fringes stealing

Far the water's face beneath;

Quickened is the pulse of feeling

Till I hear the silence breathe.

Steals a sunset o'er the surges,

Sinking seaward in the west;

From a clinging cloud emerges,

Filmy-blue, a mountain's crest;

And forgotten passion urges

Its sweet riot in my breast.

Quick, O memory, seize each ember

Of the soft and sunny past;

Let me every gleam remember

By thy colors painted fast;

That through all life's drear November

Summer in my heart may last.

C.