INTRODUCTION.

HE Summer blooms are dead, the drear winds sigh
Through ghostly trees, which shiver cold and bare ;
The yellow leaves, sad Autumn's golden tears,

Which fall for sunny days that soonest die—
The few oases of the barren years,

Carpet the sward or whirl in misty air.

Howls the chill blast all through the solemn night,
Few fitful sunbeams warm the weeping skies,
Vet Nature buries deep her treasured germs,
And soon will burst the Spring-bud to the light;
So buds our "blossom of the flying Germs,"
The offspring of the mind which never dies.