XX.Autumn.

Autumn is a favorite season with American poets; they have taken great delight in singing the high-toned magnificence of the season, as well as that delicacy and sweetness of aspect which so often adds an exquisite charm to the brilliancy of autumnal beauty under our native skies. The poets of Europe have scarcely sung the delights of Spring with more eloquent fervor. We can not wonder that such should be the case; from the first tinge of peculiar coloring to the last smile of the Indian Summer, the season is full of interest and beauty, of ever-varying aspects. It has been with real reluctance that we have been compelled to turn aside from many beautiful passages of American verse which we had originally hoped to have inserted in this division of the volume; but fortunately they lie already within every reader’s reach, in other forms.

TO AUTUMN NEAR HER DEPARTURE.

Thou maid of gentle light! thy straw-wove vest,And russet cincture; thy loose pale-tinged hair;Thy melancholy voice and languid air,As if shut up within that pensive breast,Some ne’er-to-be-divulged grief was prest;Thy looks resign’d, that smiles of patience wear,While Winter’s blasts thy scattered tresses tear;Thee, Autumn, with divinest charms have blestLet blooming Spring with gaudy hopes delight,That dazzling Summer shall of her be born;Let Summer blaze, and Winter’s stormy trainBreathe awful music in the ear of night;Thee will I court, sweet dying maid forlorn,And from thy glance will catch th’ inspired strain.Sir Egerton Brydges, 1762–1837.

Thou maid of gentle light! thy straw-wove vest,

And russet cincture; thy loose pale-tinged hair;

Thy melancholy voice and languid air,

As if shut up within that pensive breast,

Some ne’er-to-be-divulged grief was prest;

Thy looks resign’d, that smiles of patience wear,

While Winter’s blasts thy scattered tresses tear;

Thee, Autumn, with divinest charms have blest

Let blooming Spring with gaudy hopes delight,

That dazzling Summer shall of her be born;

Let Summer blaze, and Winter’s stormy train

Breathe awful music in the ear of night;

Thee will I court, sweet dying maid forlorn,

And from thy glance will catch th’ inspired strain.

Sir Egerton Brydges, 1762–1837.

ODE.

I saw old Autumn in the misty mornStand shadowless like Silence, listeningTo Silence, for no lonely bird would singInto his hollow ear from woods forlorn,Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;Shaking his languid locks, all dewy bright,With tangled gossamer that fell by night,Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

I saw old Autumn in the misty morn

Stand shadowless like Silence, listening

To Silence, for no lonely bird would sing

Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn,

Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn;

Shaking his languid locks, all dewy bright,

With tangled gossamer that fell by night,

Pearling his coronet of golden corn.

Where are the songs of Summer? With the sun,Oping the dusky eyelids of the South,'Till shade and silence waken up as one,And Morning sings with a warm, odorous mouth.Where are the merry birds?—away, away,On panting wings, through the inclement skies,Lest owls should prey,Undazzled at noon-day,And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

Where are the songs of Summer? With the sun,

Oping the dusky eyelids of the South,

'Till shade and silence waken up as one,

And Morning sings with a warm, odorous mouth.

Where are the merry birds?—away, away,

On panting wings, through the inclement skies,

Lest owls should prey,

Undazzled at noon-day,

And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.

III.

Where are the blooms of Summer? In the West,Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest,Like tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rs,To a most gloomy breast.Where is the pride of Summer—the green prime—The merry, merry leaves all twinkling?—thereOn the moss’d elm; there on the naked limeTrembling—and one upon the old oak-tree!Where is the Dryad’s immortality?Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,Or wearing the long, gloomy Winter throughIn the smooth holly’s green eternity.

Where are the blooms of Summer? In the West,

Blushing their last to the last sunny hours,

When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest,

Like tearful Proserpine, snatch’d from her flow’rs,

To a most gloomy breast.

Where is the pride of Summer—the green prime—

The merry, merry leaves all twinkling?—there

On the moss’d elm; there on the naked lime

Trembling—and one upon the old oak-tree!

Where is the Dryad’s immortality?

Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew,

Or wearing the long, gloomy Winter through

In the smooth holly’s green eternity.

The squirrel gloats on his accomplish’d hoard;The ants have cramm’d their garners with ripe grain,And honey-bees have storedThe sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;The swallows all have winged across the main;But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,And sighs her tearful spellsAmong the sunless shadows of the plain:Alone, alone,Upon a mossy stone,She sits and reckons up the dead and goneWith the last leaves for a lone-rosary,While all the wither’d world looks drearily,Like a dim picture of the drowned pastIn the hush’d mind’s mysterious far away,Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the lastInto the distance, gray upon the gray.

The squirrel gloats on his accomplish’d hoard;

The ants have cramm’d their garners with ripe grain,

And honey-bees have stored

The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells;

The swallows all have winged across the main;

But here the Autumn melancholy dwells,

And sighs her tearful spells

Among the sunless shadows of the plain:

Alone, alone,

Upon a mossy stone,

She sits and reckons up the dead and gone

With the last leaves for a lone-rosary,

While all the wither’d world looks drearily,

Like a dim picture of the drowned past

In the hush’d mind’s mysterious far away,

Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last

Into the distance, gray upon the gray.

O go and sit with her, and be o’ershadedUnder the languid downfall of her hair;She wears a coronal of flowers fadedUpon her forehead, and a face of care;There is enough of withered everywhereTo make her bower, and enough of gloom,There is enough of sadness to invite,If only for the rose that died, whose doomIs Beauty’s—she that with the living bloomOf conscious cheeks most beautifies the light.There is enough of sorrowing, and quiteEnough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear—Enough of chilly droppings from her brow—Enough of fear and shadowy despairTo frame her cloudy prison for the soul!Thomas Hood.

O go and sit with her, and be o’ershaded

Under the languid downfall of her hair;

She wears a coronal of flowers faded

Upon her forehead, and a face of care;

There is enough of withered everywhere

To make her bower, and enough of gloom,

There is enough of sadness to invite,

If only for the rose that died, whose doom

Is Beauty’s—she that with the living bloom

Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light.

There is enough of sorrowing, and quite

Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear—

Enough of chilly droppings from her brow—

Enough of fear and shadowy despair

To frame her cloudy prison for the soul!

Thomas Hood.

[Pastoral Scene]

ODE

TO WILLIAM LYTTLETON, ESQ.,TOWARD THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1748.

TO WILLIAM LYTTLETON, ESQ.,

TOWARD THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR 1748.

How blithely passed the summer’s day!How bright was every flower!While friends arrived in circles gayTo visit Damon’s bower!But now with silent step I rangeAlong some lonely shore;And Damon’s bower (alas the change!)Is gay with friends no more.Away to crowds and cities borne,In quest of joy they steer;While I, alas, am left forlornTo weep the parting year!O pensive Autumn, how I grieveThy sorrowing face to see!When languid suns are taking leaveOf every drooping tree.Ah! let me not with heavy eyeThis dying scene survey!Haste, Winter, haste; usurp the sky;Complete my bower’s decay!Ill can I bear the motley castYon sickening leaves retain,That speak at once of pleasure past,And bode approaching pain.Ah, home unblessed! I gaze around,My distant scenes require,Where, all in murky vapors drown’d,Are hamlet, hill, and spire.Though Thomson, sweet, descriptive bard!Inspiring Autumn sung;Yet how should he the months regard,That stopp’d his flowing tongue?Ah, luckless months, of all the rest,To whose hard share it fell!For sure his was the gentlest breastThat ever sung so well.And see, the swallows now disownThe roofs they loved before;Each, like his tuneful genius, flownTo glad some happier shore.The wood-nymph eyes with pale affrightThe sportsman’s frantic deed,While hounds, and horns, and yells uniteTo drown the Muse’s reed.Ye fields! with blighted herbage brown;Ye skies! no longer blue;Too much we feel from Fortune’s frown,To bear these frowns from you.Where is the mead’s unsullied green?The zephyr’s balmy gale?And where sweet Friendship’s cordial mienThat brighten’d every vale?What though the vine disclose her dyes,And boast her purple store,Not all the vineyard’s rich suppliesCan soothe our sorrows more.He! he is gone, whose moral strainCould wit and mirth refine;He! he is gone, whose social veinSurpass’d the power of wine.Fast by the streams he deign’d to praise,In yon sequester’d grove,To him a votive urn I raise,To him and friendly love.Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and sad,I 'grave your Thomson’s name;And there his lyre, which Fate forbadTo sound your growing fame.There shall my plaintive song recountDark themes of hopeless woe;And faster than the drooping fount,I’ll teach mine eyes to flow.There leaves, in spite of Autumn, greenShall shade the hallow’d ground;And Spring will there again be seen,To call forth flowers around.But no kind suns will bid me shareOnce more his social hour;Ah, Spring! thou never can’st repairHis loss to Damon’s bower.William Shenstone, 1714–1763.

How blithely passed the summer’s day!How bright was every flower!While friends arrived in circles gayTo visit Damon’s bower!

How blithely passed the summer’s day!

How bright was every flower!

While friends arrived in circles gay

To visit Damon’s bower!

But now with silent step I rangeAlong some lonely shore;And Damon’s bower (alas the change!)Is gay with friends no more.

But now with silent step I range

Along some lonely shore;

And Damon’s bower (alas the change!)

Is gay with friends no more.

Away to crowds and cities borne,In quest of joy they steer;While I, alas, am left forlornTo weep the parting year!

Away to crowds and cities borne,

In quest of joy they steer;

While I, alas, am left forlorn

To weep the parting year!

O pensive Autumn, how I grieveThy sorrowing face to see!When languid suns are taking leaveOf every drooping tree.

O pensive Autumn, how I grieve

Thy sorrowing face to see!

When languid suns are taking leave

Of every drooping tree.

Ah! let me not with heavy eyeThis dying scene survey!Haste, Winter, haste; usurp the sky;Complete my bower’s decay!

Ah! let me not with heavy eye

This dying scene survey!

Haste, Winter, haste; usurp the sky;

Complete my bower’s decay!

Ill can I bear the motley castYon sickening leaves retain,That speak at once of pleasure past,And bode approaching pain.

Ill can I bear the motley cast

Yon sickening leaves retain,

That speak at once of pleasure past,

And bode approaching pain.

Ah, home unblessed! I gaze around,My distant scenes require,Where, all in murky vapors drown’d,Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Ah, home unblessed! I gaze around,

My distant scenes require,

Where, all in murky vapors drown’d,

Are hamlet, hill, and spire.

Though Thomson, sweet, descriptive bard!Inspiring Autumn sung;Yet how should he the months regard,That stopp’d his flowing tongue?

Though Thomson, sweet, descriptive bard!

Inspiring Autumn sung;

Yet how should he the months regard,

That stopp’d his flowing tongue?

Ah, luckless months, of all the rest,To whose hard share it fell!For sure his was the gentlest breastThat ever sung so well.

Ah, luckless months, of all the rest,

To whose hard share it fell!

For sure his was the gentlest breast

That ever sung so well.

And see, the swallows now disownThe roofs they loved before;Each, like his tuneful genius, flownTo glad some happier shore.

And see, the swallows now disown

The roofs they loved before;

Each, like his tuneful genius, flown

To glad some happier shore.

The wood-nymph eyes with pale affrightThe sportsman’s frantic deed,While hounds, and horns, and yells uniteTo drown the Muse’s reed.

The wood-nymph eyes with pale affright

The sportsman’s frantic deed,

While hounds, and horns, and yells unite

To drown the Muse’s reed.

Ye fields! with blighted herbage brown;Ye skies! no longer blue;Too much we feel from Fortune’s frown,To bear these frowns from you.

Ye fields! with blighted herbage brown;

Ye skies! no longer blue;

Too much we feel from Fortune’s frown,

To bear these frowns from you.

Where is the mead’s unsullied green?The zephyr’s balmy gale?And where sweet Friendship’s cordial mienThat brighten’d every vale?

Where is the mead’s unsullied green?

The zephyr’s balmy gale?

And where sweet Friendship’s cordial mien

That brighten’d every vale?

What though the vine disclose her dyes,And boast her purple store,Not all the vineyard’s rich suppliesCan soothe our sorrows more.

What though the vine disclose her dyes,

And boast her purple store,

Not all the vineyard’s rich supplies

Can soothe our sorrows more.

He! he is gone, whose moral strainCould wit and mirth refine;He! he is gone, whose social veinSurpass’d the power of wine.

He! he is gone, whose moral strain

Could wit and mirth refine;

He! he is gone, whose social vein

Surpass’d the power of wine.

Fast by the streams he deign’d to praise,In yon sequester’d grove,To him a votive urn I raise,To him and friendly love.

Fast by the streams he deign’d to praise,

In yon sequester’d grove,

To him a votive urn I raise,

To him and friendly love.

Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and sad,I 'grave your Thomson’s name;And there his lyre, which Fate forbadTo sound your growing fame.

Yes, there, my friend! forlorn and sad,

I 'grave your Thomson’s name;

And there his lyre, which Fate forbad

To sound your growing fame.

There shall my plaintive song recountDark themes of hopeless woe;And faster than the drooping fount,I’ll teach mine eyes to flow.

There shall my plaintive song recount

Dark themes of hopeless woe;

And faster than the drooping fount,

I’ll teach mine eyes to flow.

There leaves, in spite of Autumn, greenShall shade the hallow’d ground;And Spring will there again be seen,To call forth flowers around.

There leaves, in spite of Autumn, green

Shall shade the hallow’d ground;

And Spring will there again be seen,

To call forth flowers around.

But no kind suns will bid me shareOnce more his social hour;Ah, Spring! thou never can’st repairHis loss to Damon’s bower.William Shenstone, 1714–1763.

But no kind suns will bid me share

Once more his social hour;

Ah, Spring! thou never can’st repair

His loss to Damon’s bower.

William Shenstone, 1714–1763.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Tell me where’s the violet fled,Late so gayly blowing;Springing 'neath fair Flora’s tread,Choicest sweets bestowing?Swain, the vernal scene is o’erAnd the violet blooms no more!Say, where hides the blushing rose,Pride of fragrant morning;Garland meet for beauty’s brow,Hill and dale adorning?Gentle maid, the summer’s fled,And the hapless rose is dead!Bear me then to yonder rill,Late so freely flowing,Watering many a daffodilOn its margin glowing;Sun and wind exhaust its store;Yonder rivulet glides no more!Lead me to the bowery shade,Late with roses flaunting;Loved resort of youth and maid,Amorous ditties chaunting;Hail and storm with fury shower.Leafless mourns the rifled bower!Say, where bides the village maid,Late yon cot adorning?Oft I’ve met her in the glade,Fair and fresh as morning.Swain, how short is beauty’s bloom!Seek her in the grassy tomb!Whither roves the tuneful swain,Who of rural pleasures,Rose and violet, rill and plain,Sung in dulcet measures?Maiden, swift life’s vision flies,Death has closed the poet’s eyes!Translation ofBeresford.Johan Georg. Jacobi, 1740–1814.

Tell me where’s the violet fled,Late so gayly blowing;Springing 'neath fair Flora’s tread,Choicest sweets bestowing?Swain, the vernal scene is o’erAnd the violet blooms no more!

Tell me where’s the violet fled,

Late so gayly blowing;

Springing 'neath fair Flora’s tread,

Choicest sweets bestowing?

Swain, the vernal scene is o’er

And the violet blooms no more!

Say, where hides the blushing rose,Pride of fragrant morning;Garland meet for beauty’s brow,Hill and dale adorning?Gentle maid, the summer’s fled,And the hapless rose is dead!

Say, where hides the blushing rose,

Pride of fragrant morning;

Garland meet for beauty’s brow,

Hill and dale adorning?

Gentle maid, the summer’s fled,

And the hapless rose is dead!

Bear me then to yonder rill,Late so freely flowing,Watering many a daffodilOn its margin glowing;Sun and wind exhaust its store;Yonder rivulet glides no more!

Bear me then to yonder rill,

Late so freely flowing,

Watering many a daffodil

On its margin glowing;

Sun and wind exhaust its store;

Yonder rivulet glides no more!

Lead me to the bowery shade,Late with roses flaunting;Loved resort of youth and maid,Amorous ditties chaunting;Hail and storm with fury shower.Leafless mourns the rifled bower!

Lead me to the bowery shade,

Late with roses flaunting;

Loved resort of youth and maid,

Amorous ditties chaunting;

Hail and storm with fury shower.

Leafless mourns the rifled bower!

Say, where bides the village maid,Late yon cot adorning?Oft I’ve met her in the glade,Fair and fresh as morning.Swain, how short is beauty’s bloom!Seek her in the grassy tomb!

Say, where bides the village maid,

Late yon cot adorning?

Oft I’ve met her in the glade,

Fair and fresh as morning.

Swain, how short is beauty’s bloom!

Seek her in the grassy tomb!

Whither roves the tuneful swain,Who of rural pleasures,Rose and violet, rill and plain,Sung in dulcet measures?Maiden, swift life’s vision flies,Death has closed the poet’s eyes!Translation ofBeresford.Johan Georg. Jacobi, 1740–1814.

Whither roves the tuneful swain,

Who of rural pleasures,

Rose and violet, rill and plain,

Sung in dulcet measures?

Maiden, swift life’s vision flies,

Death has closed the poet’s eyes!

Translation ofBeresford.Johan Georg. Jacobi, 1740–1814.

But see the fading, many-color’d woods,Shade deepening over shade the country roundImbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,Of every hue, from wan declining greenTo sooty dark—these now the lonesome Muse,Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strewn walks,And give the season in its latest view.Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calmFleeces unbounded ether, whose least waveStands tremulous, uncertain where to turnThe gentle current; while illumin’d wide,The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun,And through their lucid vail his softened forceShed o’er the peaceful world. Then is the timeFor those whom wisdom and whom Nature charm,To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd,And soar above this little scene of things;To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet;To soothe the throbbing passions into peace,And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks.* * * * *The pale descending year, yet pleasing still,A gentler mood inspires; for now the leafIncessant rustles from the mournful grove;Oft startling such as studious walk below,And slowly circles through the waving air.But should a quicker breeze amid the boughsSob, o’er the sky the leafy deluge streams;Till choked and matted with the dreary shower,The forest-walks, at every rising gale,Roll wide the wither’d waste, and whistle bleak.Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields,And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery raceTheir sunny robes resign. Even what remainedOf stronger fruits, falls from the naked tree,And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all aroundThe desolated prospect thrills the soul.James Thomson, 1700–1748.

But see the fading, many-color’d woods,

Shade deepening over shade the country round

Imbrown; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun,

Of every hue, from wan declining green

To sooty dark—these now the lonesome Muse,

Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strewn walks,

And give the season in its latest view.

Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calmFleeces unbounded ether, whose least waveStands tremulous, uncertain where to turnThe gentle current; while illumin’d wide,The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun,And through their lucid vail his softened forceShed o’er the peaceful world. Then is the timeFor those whom wisdom and whom Nature charm,To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd,And soar above this little scene of things;To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet;To soothe the throbbing passions into peace,And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks.

Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm

Fleeces unbounded ether, whose least wave

Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn

The gentle current; while illumin’d wide,

The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun,

And through their lucid vail his softened force

Shed o’er the peaceful world. Then is the time

For those whom wisdom and whom Nature charm,

To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd,

And soar above this little scene of things;

To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet;

To soothe the throbbing passions into peace,

And woo lone Quiet in her silent walks.

* * * * *

The pale descending year, yet pleasing still,A gentler mood inspires; for now the leafIncessant rustles from the mournful grove;Oft startling such as studious walk below,And slowly circles through the waving air.But should a quicker breeze amid the boughsSob, o’er the sky the leafy deluge streams;Till choked and matted with the dreary shower,The forest-walks, at every rising gale,Roll wide the wither’d waste, and whistle bleak.Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields,And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery raceTheir sunny robes resign. Even what remainedOf stronger fruits, falls from the naked tree,And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all aroundThe desolated prospect thrills the soul.James Thomson, 1700–1748.

The pale descending year, yet pleasing still,

A gentler mood inspires; for now the leaf

Incessant rustles from the mournful grove;

Oft startling such as studious walk below,

And slowly circles through the waving air.

But should a quicker breeze amid the boughs

Sob, o’er the sky the leafy deluge streams;

Till choked and matted with the dreary shower,

The forest-walks, at every rising gale,

Roll wide the wither’d waste, and whistle bleak.

Fled is the blasted verdure of the fields,

And, shrunk into their beds, the flowery race

Their sunny robes resign. Even what remained

Of stronger fruits, falls from the naked tree,

And woods, fields, gardens, orchards, all around

The desolated prospect thrills the soul.

James Thomson, 1700–1748.

It is the season when the light of dreamsAround the year in golden glory lies—The heavens are full of floating mysteries,And in the lake the vailed splendor gleams!Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams,Mantled with mysteries of their own romance,While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance.The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams,Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake.There the frail maples, and the faithful firsBy twisted vines are wed. The russet brakeSkirts the low pool, and starred with open burrsThe chestnut stands; but when the north-wind stirs,How like an armed host the summoned scene shall wake!T. B. Read.

It is the season when the light of dreams

Around the year in golden glory lies—

The heavens are full of floating mysteries,

And in the lake the vailed splendor gleams!

Like hidden poets lie the hazy streams,

Mantled with mysteries of their own romance,

While scarce a breath disturbs their drowsy trance.

The yellow leaf which down the soft air gleams,

Glides, wavers, falls, and skims the unruffled lake.

There the frail maples, and the faithful firs

By twisted vines are wed. The russet brake

Skirts the low pool, and starred with open burrs

The chestnut stands; but when the north-wind stirs,

How like an armed host the summoned scene shall wake!

T. B. Read.

Far and wideNature is smiling in her loveliness.Masses of wood, green strips of fields, ravinesShown by their outlines drawn against the hills,Chimneys and roofs, trees, single and in groups,Bright curves of brooks, and vanishing mountain-topExpand upon my sight, October’s brushThe scene has color’d; not with those broad huesMix’d in his later pallet by the frost,And dash’d upon the picture till the eyeAches with varied splendor, but in tintsLeft by light, scatter’d touches. OverheadThere is a blending of cloud, haze, and sky,A silvery sheet with spaces of soft blue;A trembling vail of gauze is stretch’d athwartThe shadowy hill-sides and dark forest-flanks;A soothing quiet broods upon the air,And the faint sunshine winks with drowsiness.Far sounds melt mellow on the ear: the bark—The bleat—the tinkle—whistle—blast of horn—The rattle of the wagon-wheel—the low—The fowler’s shot—the twitter of the bird,And e’en the hum of converse from the road.The grass, with its low insect-tones, appearsAs murmuring in its sleep. This butterflySeems as if loth to stir, so lazilyIt flutters by. In fitful starts, and stops,The locust sings. The grasshopper breaks outIn brief, harsh strains, amid its pausing chirps.The beetle, glistening in its sable mail,Slow climbs the clover-tops, and e’en the antDarts round less eagerly.* * * * *Alfred Street.

Far and wide

Nature is smiling in her loveliness.

Masses of wood, green strips of fields, ravines

Shown by their outlines drawn against the hills,

Chimneys and roofs, trees, single and in groups,

Bright curves of brooks, and vanishing mountain-top

Expand upon my sight, October’s brush

The scene has color’d; not with those broad hues

Mix’d in his later pallet by the frost,

And dash’d upon the picture till the eye

Aches with varied splendor, but in tints

Left by light, scatter’d touches. Overhead

There is a blending of cloud, haze, and sky,

A silvery sheet with spaces of soft blue;

A trembling vail of gauze is stretch’d athwart

The shadowy hill-sides and dark forest-flanks;

A soothing quiet broods upon the air,

And the faint sunshine winks with drowsiness.

Far sounds melt mellow on the ear: the bark—

The bleat—the tinkle—whistle—blast of horn—

The rattle of the wagon-wheel—the low—

The fowler’s shot—the twitter of the bird,

And e’en the hum of converse from the road.

The grass, with its low insect-tones, appears

As murmuring in its sleep. This butterfly

Seems as if loth to stir, so lazily

It flutters by. In fitful starts, and stops,

The locust sings. The grasshopper breaks out

In brief, harsh strains, amid its pausing chirps.

The beetle, glistening in its sable mail,

Slow climbs the clover-tops, and e’en the ant

Darts round less eagerly.

* * * * *

Alfred Street.

Ere, in the northern gale,The summer tresses of the trees are gone,The woods of Autumn all around our vale,Have put their glory on.The mountains that enfoldIn their wide sweep the colored landscape round,Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,That guard the enchanted ground.I roam the woods that crownThe upland, where the mingled splendors glow—Where the gay company of trees look downOn the green fields below.My steps are not aloneIn these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strewnAlong the winding way.And far in heaven, the while,The sun that sends that gale to wander here,Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,The sweetest of the year.Where now the solemn shade,Verdure and gloom, where many branches meet;So grateful when the noon of summer madeThe valleys rich with heat?Let in through all the treesCome the strange rays; the forest depths are bright!Their sunny-colored foliage in the breezeTwinkles, like beams of light.The rivulet, late unseen,Where, bickering through the shrubs, its waters run,Shines with the image of its golden screen,And glimmerings of the sun.Beneath yon crimson tree,Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,Nor mark within its roseate canopyHer blush of maiden shame.Oh, Autumn, why so soonDepart the hues that make thy forests glad,Thy gentle wind, and thy fair sunny noon,And leave thee wild and sad!Ah! twere a lot too bless’dForever in thy colored shades to stray;Amid the tresses of the soft southwest,To rove and dream for aye;And leave the vain, low strifeThat makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,The passions and the cares that wither life,And waste its little hour.William C. Bryant.

Ere, in the northern gale,The summer tresses of the trees are gone,The woods of Autumn all around our vale,Have put their glory on.

Ere, in the northern gale,

The summer tresses of the trees are gone,

The woods of Autumn all around our vale,

Have put their glory on.

The mountains that enfoldIn their wide sweep the colored landscape round,Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,That guard the enchanted ground.

The mountains that enfold

In their wide sweep the colored landscape round,

Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,

That guard the enchanted ground.

I roam the woods that crownThe upland, where the mingled splendors glow—Where the gay company of trees look downOn the green fields below.

I roam the woods that crown

The upland, where the mingled splendors glow—

Where the gay company of trees look down

On the green fields below.

My steps are not aloneIn these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strewnAlong the winding way.

My steps are not alone

In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,

Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strewn

Along the winding way.

And far in heaven, the while,The sun that sends that gale to wander here,Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,The sweetest of the year.

And far in heaven, the while,

The sun that sends that gale to wander here,

Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,

The sweetest of the year.

Where now the solemn shade,Verdure and gloom, where many branches meet;So grateful when the noon of summer madeThe valleys rich with heat?

Where now the solemn shade,

Verdure and gloom, where many branches meet;

So grateful when the noon of summer made

The valleys rich with heat?

Let in through all the treesCome the strange rays; the forest depths are bright!Their sunny-colored foliage in the breezeTwinkles, like beams of light.

Let in through all the trees

Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright!

Their sunny-colored foliage in the breeze

Twinkles, like beams of light.

The rivulet, late unseen,Where, bickering through the shrubs, its waters run,Shines with the image of its golden screen,And glimmerings of the sun.

The rivulet, late unseen,

Where, bickering through the shrubs, its waters run,

Shines with the image of its golden screen,

And glimmerings of the sun.

Beneath yon crimson tree,Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,Nor mark within its roseate canopyHer blush of maiden shame.

Beneath yon crimson tree,

Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,

Nor mark within its roseate canopy

Her blush of maiden shame.

Oh, Autumn, why so soonDepart the hues that make thy forests glad,Thy gentle wind, and thy fair sunny noon,And leave thee wild and sad!

Oh, Autumn, why so soon

Depart the hues that make thy forests glad,

Thy gentle wind, and thy fair sunny noon,

And leave thee wild and sad!

Ah! twere a lot too bless’dForever in thy colored shades to stray;Amid the tresses of the soft southwest,To rove and dream for aye;

Ah! twere a lot too bless’d

Forever in thy colored shades to stray;

Amid the tresses of the soft southwest,

To rove and dream for aye;

And leave the vain, low strifeThat makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,The passions and the cares that wither life,And waste its little hour.William C. Bryant.

And leave the vain, low strife

That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power,

The passions and the cares that wither life,

And waste its little hour.

William C. Bryant.

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