Part 6 — AUTUMN.

[PRIZE POEM—for which the Premium of $150 was awarded by the Committee.]

———

BY JESSE E. DOW.

———

————————For him the hand

Of Autumn tinges every fertile branch

With blooming gold and blushes like the morn.

Akenside.

Season of fading glory! Oh how sad,

When through the woodland moans thy fitful gale,

Shaking the ripen’d nuts from loftiest bough,

And down the forest side and sylvan road

Whirling the yellow leaves with rustling sound.

Mountain and vale, and mead, and pasture wild,

Have quickly changed their robes of deepest green;

The summer flowers are withered, save a few

Pale tremblers by the sunny cottage door,

That linger, relics of the roseate band,

Till icy winter, wandering from the pole,

Sings their sad death-song on the snowy hills.

Though not a cloud appears to fleck the sky,

The sun at evening shines with tempered heat,

The solitary flicker bores the tree⁠—

The carpenter of birds; and in the path,

The deadly rattlesnake, with flattened head,

And tongue of crimson darting from his mouth,

Watches the idle bird that marks his form,

Till the charmed victim, with affrighted cries,

Drops on his fangs, the vile seducer’s prey.

The hunter takes his way amid the woods,

Or by the ocean side, when far away

The wave that roll’d upon the beach has gone,

To lave a thousand isles of beauty ere

It breaks again in thunder on that shore.

The well-trained setter through the covert seeks

The bird the sportsman’s fancy prizes o’er

The feathered songsters of the woodland wild;

The covey starts, and soon the murd’rous aim

Brings down the plover, or the woodcock dun,

Or mottled pheasant, that puts trust in man,

And finds, as all have found, the trust abused.

On the brown stump the sprightly squirrel sits,

Filling his striped pouch with ripened grain,

While in the thicket near the rabbit glides,

And as his foot falls on the withered leaves,

A rustling sound in the dim woods is heard,

Rousing the chewitt and the piping jay,

And startling from the dead pines naked top,

With hoarsest cry, the reconnoitering crow.

The meadow-lark, with yellow breast, alights

On the old field, and sings her favorite strain⁠—

A clear harmonious song. The Hunter Boy⁠—

A little urchin stealing by his side,

With freckled face, lit up with roguish smiles,

And eyes that twinkled perfect gems of fun⁠—

Armed with an ancient musket, that did speak

The voice of death on wars victorious fields,

Creeps down the garden wall and nears her seat,

Then, casting down his flopping hat of straw,

Rests fearless o’er his trembling playmate’s back,

Takes deadly aim, and shuts both eyes, and fires!

Loud ring the hills, and vales, and plains around,

The border grove is filled with sulphurous smoke,

The cat-bird cries “for shame!” and darts away

Before her leafy resting-place is seen;

And when the cloud of death has floated on,

The victim bird is found a gory thing,

While the proud hero of this manly sport,

Struts down the lane like Cæsar entering Rome.

The patient Angler threads the winding brook,

Tempting the dainty trout with gilded bait;

And ever and anon, as fleecy clouds

Pass o’er the sun, the fish voracious darts

From the cool shadows of some mossy bank,

Swallows the bait with one convulsive act,

And learns too late that death was at the feast;

While the glad sportsman feels the sudden jerk,

And plays his victim with extended line,

Swiftly he darts, and through the glittering rings

The silken line is drawn with ringing sound,

Till wearied out with struggling that but serves

To drive the barbed weapon deeper still,

He seeks his quiet shelter ’neath the bank,

And thence in triumph to the shore is borne,

A prize that well rewards a day of toil.

Along the hills the school-boy flies his kite,

Shoots the smooth marble o’er the studded ring,

Or o’er the commons with a bound and shout,

Beats the soft ball for one well skilled to catch.

Health crowns the joyful exercise, and night

Finds its tired votaries trained for quiet sleep.

Bearing his hazel wand of curious form,

The searcher after earth’s deep spring goes forth,

Handling his mystic prongs as Merlin taught,

Or later follower of the magic school.

Now over hill-tops, stony as the mounds

The Indian warriors raise above their slain,

Then down in valleys, where the sun ne’er shines,

Fringed round with sylvan borders dense and rank,

He trudges, looking wiser than the one

Who passes o’er the busy brain his hand,

And wraps the senses in a sleep profound.

At length, above a vale where willows bend,

And grass grows greenest in the waning year,

His curious tell-tale turns toward the earth;

He stops, and with a shout of joy proclaims

The long sought spot where living water runs,

And where the well may sink, nor sink in vain.

The forest now awakes, while stroke on stroke

Falls on the hoary monarch of the wood,

Now shaking ’mid the scions that have towered

Beneath its shade for years. At length it falls,

And with terrific crash, bears down to earth

Each minor object that obstructs its way⁠—

Down on the verdant carpet that has spread

Beneath its branches in the summer heat,

Behold it lying like a warrior stern,

Who, having grappled in the deadly fray,

Has sank amid his fellows in his pride⁠—

But not to die, tho’ robbed of all its green,

Still shall it in the lofty steeple live,

Or in the battle-ship, whose thunder speaks

The voice of freedom on her ocean way.

The sail that wafts the admiral in his pride,

By it is held to catch the willing gale,

And on its giant breast the fabric rests,

That bears the sturdy warriors of the deep,

And floats them on in sunshine and in storm.

Its branches to the cottage-hearth are given,

And by the fire that feeds and grows on them

The chilly air is changed to breath of spring.

Food, shelter, comfort, from its fall proceed,

And thousands bless the hand that laid thee low.

Above the purple peaks that fringe the west

The swollen clouds obey the tempest’s call,

And rear their domes and battlements of mist,

With turrets, barbicans, and spires of gold;

Now changing into shapes of demon form,

With wreaths of lightning twining round their brows,

And now, like waves of darkness from old night,

Scowling and breaking on the misty hills.

A drowsy stillness steals along the plain,

The leaves are motionless on every tree,

The twitt’ring swallow glides along the ground,

While the more cautious pigeon seeks the eaves.

The geese that o’er the green so stately stalked,

Take flight toward the west with heavy wing,

And scream a welcome to the coming rain.

The cattle from the hills come early home,

And from the fallow ground the lab’rer turns,

Long ere the hour of sunset, with an eye

That reads the secrets of the heavens as well

As though it opened first in Chaldea’s land.

Along the road the mimic whirlwind runs,

And with its unseen fingers lifts the dust;

The town-returning wagon faster moves,

And down the hill, and o’er the sandy plain,

The village Jehu makes the coach-wheel spin;

And while the plover whistles on the moor,

The stage-horn breaks upon the startled ear.

But, hark! the storm-drum beats the tempest charge;

The groaning forest feels its rushing breath,

And bends its yellow head to let it pass;

The vivid lightning takes its errant way,

While echoing, ’mid the sparkling balls of hail,

Is heard the sound of its descending feet

In thunder. The hail drops fearfully around,

Strips the stout trees, and beats to earth the grain,

Wounds man and beast amid the open fields,

And strikes with deadly blow the wild fowl down.

Flash after flash lights up the dreaded scene,

And answering thunder speaks from every cloud;

While the deep caverns of the ocean swell

Their mystic voices in the chorus grand.

Men sit in silence now with anxious looks,

While timid mothers seek their downy beds,

And press their wailing infants to their breasts.

From her low lattice by the cottage-door,

The bolder housewife marks the pelting storm;

Sees the adventurous traveler onward go,

Seeking his distant hamlet, ere the night

Adds tenfold horrors to the dismal scene.

Swiftly the steed bounds o’er the woodland plain,

While hope beams brightly from the rider’s eye,

When lo! a crimson flash, with peal sublime,

Instant as thought, and terrible as death,

Around her bursts. Blinded, she starts, then seeing,

Looks again. The horse and his bold rider lie

Hushed in the marble-sleep that lasts through time.

And while the wind howls mournfully around,

The forest owns the baptism of fire.

The onset o’er, in mingled fire and hail,

Behold the rain in sweet profusion falls.

The warm shower melts the crystal drops that hide

The earth’s brown bosom; and the foaming brooks

Go singing down the hills, and through the vales,

Like happy children when their task is done.

A few bright flashes, and hoarse, rattling peals,

And then, amid the broad and crimson glow,

O’er western hills, a golden spot appears,

That spreads and brightens as the tempest wanes,

Like Heaven’s first smile upon the dying’s face.

’Tis gone, the rumbling of its chariot wheels

Dies in the ocean vales where echo sleeps;

While waves that roll’d in music on the shore,

Lashed into angry surges, foam and break

In notes of terror on the rocky lee.

’Tis gone, and on its bosom dark and wild

The bow of God is hung, in colors bright

And beautiful as morning’s blushing tints,

When the ark rested on the mountain top,

And the small remnant of a deluged world,

Looked out upon the wilderness, and wept.

—

Gently the Sabbath breaks upon the hills,

As when the first blest Sabbath marked the course

Of time. The golden sunbeam sleeps upon

The woods. No cloud casts o’er the scene a shade.

The six days’ labor ended, man and beast

Enjoy the season of appointed rest.

The fields are lonely, and the drowsy dells

Scarce catch the whisper of the gentle air;

And now is heard, for over hill and dale,

Up laughing valley, and through whisp’ring glen,

Gladdening the solitary place, and sadder heart,

The sweet-toned Sabbath-bell. Oh, joyful sound!

When from the Indian Isle the storm-tossed bark,

Furls its white pinion by its cradled shore,

And the tir’d sailor, on the giddy yard,

Cent’ring the thoughts of years in one short hour,

Looks to the land, and hears thy melting peal.

At such an hour the grateful heart pours out

Its praise, that upward soars like the blue smoke

Rising from its bright cottage-hearth to heaven;

And from the deep empyrian the ear

Of holy faith an answering note receives,

To still the mourning soul, and dry its tears.

Sweet is the Sabbath to a world of care,

When spring comes blushing with her buds and flowers;

When summer scents the rose, and fills the grain;

When autumn crowns her horn, and binds her sheaves,

And winter keeps his cold watch on the hills.

The wakeful cock from distant farm-yard crows

The passing hour—the miller stops his wheel

To gather headway for the coming task⁠—

And by the turnpike-gate the loaded team,

With bending necks, stand panting, while beneath

The rustic shade the careless teamster waits⁠—

With long-lashed whip, and frock of linsey-wool,

And hat of undyed felt cocked o’er his eye⁠—

There draining to the dregs his foaming gourd,

Stands in his brogans every inch a King.

Approach him, sage professor, as you list,

With question subtil on a point abstruse:

Or with a query as to simple things⁠—

Physics or metaphysics, old or new,

Law, written or unwritten, good or bad,

Logic, domestic or of foreign growth,

Knowledge, too deep to know and never known,

Or sluggish faith, that takes a teeming age

Of miracles, to make one soul believe;

Questions political, that sage to sage

Have past for centuries on, as truants wild

Toss prickly burs, for their unthinking mates

To catch, by moonlight, in the autumnal woods;

Talk of creation, or the Chinese wall,

Wander o’er Athen’s hill or sumac knoll,

Drink at Castalia’s fount or Jasper’s Spring,

And he is there to answer and confound.

Nature’s philosopher! untaught by schools,

Who knows, and can explain in one short hour,

More than the wide world knew in Plato’s day.

—

And there the blacksmith by his anvil stands⁠—

Well may you mark his tall and robust form,

His forehead full, where intellect may dwell,

And eye that glances like the flying sparks

When the red bar comes dazzling from the forge.

All day his hammer works his iron will,

The reaper’s sickle and the crooked scythe

The ponderous tire that binds the wagon-wheel,

And the small rivet of the schoolboy’s toy,

Come at his bidding from the metal crude. The patient ox

Waits for his iron shoes beside his door,

And the gay steed that bounds along the course

Neighs merrier when he plates his hoofs with steel;

The temple door on his stout hinges turns,

And in the vault of Mammon rests secure

The treasure guarded by his master-key.

Day after day he toils, as seldom toil

The slaves that drag their lazy length along⁠—

Sleeping at noon that they may dance at night⁠—

In the plantations of the sunny South;

Yet he unmurmuring bears the laborer’s curse,

To share his joys and roam the golden fields,

Erect in form and intellect—a man!

But when the evening comes with cooling breath,

Bringing the hour for labor’s sweet repose,

He clears his brow from every mark of toil,

And seeks his cottage by the village green;

There, having ate in peace his frugal meal,

He turns his mind, insatiate, to his books:

And, by the aid of Learning’s golden key,

Holds sweet communion with the ages past.

Behold! the scholar now in honest pride!

Around him sleep the mystic tomes of years,

Books that the western world ne’er saw before⁠—

The manuscripts of monks, ere printing gave

The world a channel to a sea of thought,

Where all might sail, and drink in raptures in

The spirit-waters, sparkling from their founts.

His tongue can speak more languages than fell

From human lips at Babel’s overthrow;

Nor secret thing, to mortal spirit known,

Is hidden from his penetrating eye.

Versed in the deepest mysteries of the schools,

With memory stored with all the mind e’er grasped,

With talents rarely willed by Heaven to one,

And sympathetic heart that beats for all,

Nor knows an outcast at its feast of love,

Burritt now lives, the wonder of mankind.

Rabbis and sage professors call him learned,

And to his humble gateway come in crowds,

To hear the page of ancient lore rehearsed,

And catch the jewel-thoughts that fall from him

Who sits amid the learned a self-taught man.

—

In the dun forest, far away from noise

Of traveled road, beneath the giant trees,

Whose branches form a lofty canopy

O’er a great circle cleared by willing hands,

Where the gray ash obstructs the serpent’s path,

The happy Christians pitch their tents of prayer.

There naught is heard but soothing woodland sounds,

The tempered roar of distant waterfall,

The fox’s sharp bark, the heathcock’s cheerful crow.

The wildcat’s growl amid the deepest shade,

And the shrill scream of hunger-driven hawk,

As through the openings he pursues his prey.

Amid the tents upon the highest spot,

The preachers’ stand in humble form appears,

And by its side the horn with mellow note,

To give the signal meet for praise and prayer.

There all conditions come with hearts of love,

Married and single, sons and daughters fair,

The emigrants from every templed land;

The Saxon, in his pride of high descent,

The Gaul, with spirit-harp of finer strings,

The Pict, ne’er weaned from his romantic hills,

Where o’er the heather rolls the Highland tongue,

The Swiss, whose home is where his cottage smiles,

The light Italian, gayest of the gay,

And the coarse Hollander, who loves the marsh,

Nor deems a heaven a home without a ditch⁠—

The river seaman of the mighty west,

Rude in their speech, but honest as they’re rude,

The man of cities, and the pioneer,

Whose axe first let the sunlight to the woods,

When nature in her lonely beauty slept

On the wide prairie and the sylvan hill⁠—

The beaver-trapper, from the far-off stream;

The bison-hunter, from the saline lick;

And the wild Indian, in his forest dress,

All gather from their journeyings to keep,

In humble guise, a week of holier time.

And now the horn has echoed wide and shrill,

And the great congregation waits for prayer.

One takes the stand—a man not taught by schools⁠—

In habit plain, with hands embrown’d by toil;

Blunt in his speech, yet reverent withall.

Now, scarcely understood, he lifts his voice

In praise to God. Then as his feelings catch

The inspiration of that hallowed hour,

Soars to a pitch of eloquence sublime,

While the deep woods are vocal with his prayer.

His words, like rain upon the thirsty ground,

Fall on the ear of that great multitude.

Now he describes a Savior’s matchless love⁠—

His high estate, his exile from the throne,

His mocking trial, and his felon death;

The noonday sun in darkness veils its face,

And earthquake voices fill the trembling air,

While the old dead in shrouds, through Salem’s streets,

Go forth a ghostly company again,

Singing the song of Moses and the Lamb,

And making the proud Temple’s arches ring,

With the glad praises of Redeeming Love.

’Tis done! the mighty plan is carried out⁠—

The last great Sacrifice for sin is o’er;

Then from the tomb he rolls the stone away,

And shows a risen Savior and a God!

The different hearers testify his power

In different ways. The truth, like a sharp sword,

Has cleaved its path. The flinty heart is crushed;

And the great deep of sin is broken up.

The old transgressors tremble by the stand⁠—

The young in sin repent to sin no more.

A thousand voices join in one wild prayer,

And shrieks, and groans, and shouts of joy arise,

And Heaven keeps Sabbath o’er the autumn woods.

The painted savage, who amid the crowd

Has stood unmoved for days, awakes to life;

His giant breast in wild commotion heaves,

His heart would speak, nor wait to reach his lips;

He stands and vainly calls to his relief

His savage nature; but, alas! ’tis gone.

Then falling on his face amid the woods

That often echoed to his war-whoop fell,

He casts his weapons at his Savior’s feet,

And lays aside his garments stained with blood.

His voice in accents of his soul now speaks,

His eyes with tears of deep contrition stream,

And from a trembling tongue in transport breaks,

Sweet Alleluia to the King of Kings!

The angel hovering o’er that forest scene,

Bears up the tidings on exulting wing,

And soon from the high pinnacles of bliss,

The Seraph harps in sweetness make response,

Alleluia!

The thrilling song in gentle murmuring falls

Upon the anxious ear, like music heard

On the calm ocean at the midnight hour;

Speaks to the broken heart in whispers sweet,

An dies away amid the forest hum,

Alleluia!

The night has come, and one by one the lights

Go out amid the trees, and the vast multitude

Is hushed in sleep.

—

The harvest moon sails up its cloudless way,

Full round and red—the farmer’s evening friend,

Lengthening the hours of labor, when the hand

Finds more than it can do within the day.

How gently falls its light upon the plains,

The quiet lake, and music-breathing woods;

The wakened bird mistakes it for the dawn,

And in the bush begins her matin song.

A moment rings the solitary strain,

And then no sound is wafted to the ear,

Save the wild whisper of the dying wind,

Or distant foot-fall of some prowling beast.

Sweet voyager of night! whose fairy bark

Sails silently around the dusky earth,

Whose silver lamp in chastened splendor burns,

Trimmed by the hand that fashioned thee so fair,

And sent thee forth on thy eternal way,

The nearest and the brightest to our eyes

Of Heavens innumerable host—sail on

Thy joyous way, in beauty ’mid the stars,

And catch the song of those bright sentinels,

Who watch the outposts on the bounds of time,

Sending in vain their rays to pierce the gloom

Of drear immensity. The lover’s eye⁠—

Whether he grasps the wreck amid the waves,

Or treads in pride the well appointed deck

Of richly freighted galleon; or is doom’d,

Like Selkirk, in his lonely isle, to dwell

More desolate because his ear had heard,

In Scottish valley, the sweet Sabbath bell;

Or chases, with the seamen of the north,

The monster-whale, by Greenland’s sounding shore,

Where crystal icebergs lift their glittering peaks,

And bathe with rainbow hues the snowy vales;

Or robs the otter of his glossy coat,

Where the Oregon sings her endless hymn

To the Pacific’s waters; or gathers

Birds’ nests ’mid the endless summer isles,

Where waves the cocoa-nut and lofty palm

O’er crystal billows, ’mid whose coral groves

The fish of brightest tints in beauty swim⁠—

In health or sickness, joy or sorrow, turns

Inquiringly to thee, and speaks of love⁠—

Love that endures when strength and reason fails.

So the poor idiot on the moonlit hill,

Patting his dog, his last and truest friend,

Looks up with eye of more than usual fire,

And, ’mid his idle chattering, speaks the name

Of one who loved him best in boyhood’s dream.

Thompson, sweet village! throned upon thy hills,

With happy homes, and spires that gleam above

Thy sacred altars, where the fathers taught,

And generations learned the way to God—

How pleasant, with remembrance’s eye, to view

The varied landscape changing autumn spreads

O’er sunny vales that slumber at thy feet;

Where roll the babbling brook and deeper stream,

Winding, like threads of silver tissue, wrought

By Moorish maidens on their robes of green.

Around thee rise a host of smiling towns,

Bearing the names of mightier ones abroad.

There Dudley, glittering on the northern sky,

Stands on her lofty height supremely fair,

While westward, Woodstock with her groves is seen,

In rural beauty blest; and at her feet,

Wrapt in a silver cloud, sweet Pomfret vale,

Spreads its gay bosom, dear to childhood’s hour.

The iron-horse now darts with lightning speed

Through the green valleys that my boyhood knew,

And at each turn the lovely river makes,

At the mere plashing of the wild swan’s wing,

A babbling village rises from the flood;

And there the halls of labor lift their domes

At Mammon’s call, and countless spindles twirl

The snowy thread, that soon is changed to gold;

While far around is heard the dash of wheels,

And the unceasing roar of swollen dams.

The dead leaves dance upon the river’s breast,

With tufts of cotton-waste, and here and there

A golden apple, dropped by careless boy,

Floating along toward the ocean’s flood.

On the grey oak the fisher-bird awaits

The speckled trout, or chaffin, tinged with gold;

While ’neath the rock the swimmer leaves his clothes,

And ’mid the cooling wave in gladness sports

His ivory limbs, nor heeds the near approach

Of roaming bard, or red-cheeked factory girl,

Who climbs the rustic bridge, nor casts an eye

Toward her Leander, naked in the flood.

On such fair maidens no Duennas wait,

To scare young love from answering love away;

No convent-gates are closed to bar her will,

Nor Hotspur brothers, armed with deadly steel,

In secret wait to guard that honor safe,

Which, but for such restraint, had long since fled.

Beyond the swampy meadow, fringed with flags,

The ancient forest waves its gaudy head,

O’er which the eagle takes his lonely way⁠—

The mighty hunter of the upper air.

There, in the mossy dells, where all is still,

Save when uncertain murmurs come and go

Along the solemn arches of the wood⁠—

Like whispers in a lonely lane at dark,

Or soothing hum of home-returning bee⁠—

The boy, delighted, sets his secret snares,

Clearing broad paths amid the yellow leaves,

Where the cock-partridge may strut in pride

At earliest dawn, and find the fatal noose;

There, when the sun is peeping o’er the hills,

Tinging the woodland sea with gorgeous hues,

He goes, with eager step and anxious eye,

Beholds the path obscured, the sapling sprung,

And, ’mid the maple boughs, his mottled prey.

—

The Reaper pauses in the ample field,

Where a rich harvest smiles to bless his toil,

And rests beside the oak, beneath whose shade,

In ages past, the wandering Red Man slept;

There, while the sun poured down his fervent ray,

The happy laborer seeks to quench his thirst,

With crystal water from the lime-stone spring,

Or milk, from prudent housewife’s ample store⁠—

Pure as it came from Nature’s healthy fount;

And while he sits the idle hours away,

He muses o’er his country and her fame,

And dares to claim her empire as his own.

And there, amid the grass, the children play

Around the sun-burnt maidens, as they twine

The bands to bind the golden armfuls tight,

And leave the bristling sheafs, with plenty crowned,

Standing in beauty on the fresh-reap’d hill.

The groaning wagon gathers up the grain

From auburn fields. The yellow sheafs are piled

In ponderous heaps, while one well skilled builds up

The toppling load, and when ’tis finished, sits

On its sere top, crowned with the ripened grain⁠—

The Autumn’s King! And as the reaper’s hale

And rosy children shout for joy, he sings,

With mellow voice, the song of Harvest Home.

The sickle gleams no more amid the fields;

The cradled hills are open to the feet

Of Want’s poor gleaners and the hunter band;

And there the quail walks with her piping brood

Amid the stubble, teaching them to fly.

Amid the orchard, bending ’neath the load

That fair Pomona from her lap has strewn,

The busy husbandmen commence their tasks.

The red-cheeked apple, and the greening pale,

The golden-pippin, and the blue pearmain,

Baldwin and russet, all are toppled down,

And to the air a balmy fragrance give.

And there, the urchins playing all the while,

Select the choicest fruit for future use,

When the long winter night creeps o’er the hill,

And autumn’s golden brow is wrapped in gloom.

The cider-press, beneath the farm-house shade,

Now creaks, as round old Dobbin takes his way,

While from the massive vat the liquid pours,

And in abundant casks ferments and foams.

Hail, generous drink! fair Newark’s honest boast,

The laborer’s beverage in a northern clime,

Where freedom first, in deadly strife was born,

And where her last scarred-follower shall die⁠—

If death to such e’er come.

Oft have I sighed for thee in spicy clime,

Where hung the clustering grape from every bough,

And where the nectar of the gods was free

As Croton-water in old Gotham’s Park.

Untainted with the liquid sin that flows

From the destroyer’s still, thy spirit lifts

The thirsty soul from earth—but not too high,

Nor leaves at morn a flush upon the brow.

An apple caused the first of earth to sin;

But thou, well made, and freed from earthly taint,

Raisest the weary spirit to its tone,

And givest to labor’s cheek the glow of health.

Now, in the rosy morn, the spotted hounds

Before the mounted Huntsmen hie away.

O’er fields and meadows, onward see them go,

Scaling the walls, and trampling down the corn.

And now they penetrate the forest shade,

And from the sylvan dell, and wood-capt hill,

The deep-mouthed bay with wild halloo is heard,

Swelling in cadence to the hunter’s horn.

In her retreat, amid the deepest shade,

Where the long grass is tender, and ne’er fails,

The red-deer hears, and starts, and lists again,

Till louder still the chase’s wild music sounds,

Then down the hill-side to the lake that spreads

Its broad unruffled bosom to the morn,

She takes her course; while on her haunches come

The bellowing pack, like gaunt and hungry wolves.

Now she has gained the stunted alder’s shade,

That line the margin of the waters clear,

And turning quickly round the wave-worn hill,

That towers abruptly o’er the narrow beach,

Dips her light hoofs in the unconscious wave,

And seeks the mountain-pass with lightning speed.

Hid from their sight, the scent in water lost,

The eager pack plunge headlong in the flood;

But soon recalled to duty, ’long the shore

They scour, till one more practiced than the rest,

Stops where the chase her sylvan pathway took,

And bellowing wildly, follows in her track,

With the whole party thundering at his heels.

The wily deer too long has got the start,

And now from distant hill-side sees the foe

Come panting up the dell with weary limb.

A moment only does she look, then turns

And glides in silence down the other side;

And when the Huntsmen gain the lofty height,

The deer is far away—the chase is o’er.

Oh! who can sing the glories of the woods,

When Indian Summer, like a death-smile, rests

On autumn’s sallow cheek too soon to fade.

In ages past, when thou didst gently come,

“With nights of frost, and noons of sultry heat,

When skies were blue as highly tempered steel,

And rivers clear as crystal, and the mist

Upon the mountains hung its silver veil;

When o’er the grass a fairy net-work spread,

And naught was green except the mountain pine,

The willow, and the bullrush by the brook”⁠—

Our fathers feared—for then amid the wilds,

Called by the wampum-belt of varied hue,

The Indian warriors built their council-fire,

And in the war-dance joined with hellish rite,

Till morning broke upon the dusky woods.

Then, at the hour when mortals soundest slept,

And nature was at rest, they sallied forth,

Armed with the hatchet and the scalping-knife,

And trusty rifle, whose report was death.

The sleeping father woke to hear the cry

Of butchered wife, and infant rudely torn

From her clasped arms, to feel the war-club’s power.

One look he gave, and on his silvery head

The hatchet fell, and loosed the flood of life,

Then sinking down in death’s cold senseless sleep,

Added fresh fuel to the crackling flames

That spread around his lonely sylvan cot,

And lit, with hateful glare, the moaning woods.

Next morn the wandering hunter marked the waste,

And found amid the ashes, human bones,

An axe, a child’s steel rattle, and a lock

Of woman’s golden hair, still wet with blood.

—

The sun in mellow light sleeps on the hills,

The lazy river rolls in silence on,

The woods keep Sabbath, till the deep-mouthed bay

Of wandering fox-hound breaks upon the ear;

Or from the top of an old chestnut falls,

The tempting nut the startled squirrel drops,

Parting the fading leaves with pattering sound;

Or on the rotten log beside the stile,

The busy partridge beats her woodland drum.

The frost has tipt the trees with lovelier tints

Than pencil ever gave to forest scene;

There, green and gold in various hues combine,

Spotted with crimson where the maple stands,

And when the sun upon the hoar-frost shines,

The foliage sparkles, as though crystals hung

On every leaf, and trembled in the air.

The eye now penetrates the half-clad trees,

And spies the squirrel in his leafy house,

Or marks upon the limb the wish-ton-wish,

Who rests by day, that he may sweeter sing

His song at night, beside the cottage gate.

The thistle-seed, with wing of silver down,

Floats in the air, and flashes in the sun.

The dusky worm that feasted on the leaf

In the green spring-time, weaves his curious shroud,

And fastening it by thread of minute size,

To the tall poplar swings himself to sleep.

Type of the resurrection! lo, he hangs

Between the mortal and the spirit-land,

Till called by God, through Nature’s changeless laws,

He starts a winged creature clad in light,

With tints of morning blushing on his wings.

The fisher’s boat along the river glides,

Nor leaves a ripple in its shallow wake.

The wild swan sports in Anicosta’s wave,

And deems his shadow his departed mate;

The patient heron, on the wave-washed rock

For hours stands, watching his suspecting prey;

The wild-goose raises heavily to join

The gabbling cohort that is hastening on,

High in the air, to the bright summer-land,

Where the superb magnolia lifts its head.

And scents the gale—a wilderness of flowers.

The hardy ivy climbs the giant tree,

To place green garlands on its withered head;

The wild grape from the lofty walnut hangs

Its purple clusters tempting to the sight;

And by the swampy brook, the sunflower turns

Its golden eye in meekness toward its God;

The deer, from sylvan dell comes out to drink;

The buzzard on the dead tree patient waits,

For the returning tide to line the shore

With food well-suited to his groveling taste;

And o’er the bosom of the widening stream,

The lazy fish-hawk flaps his heavy wing.

—

Old age and childhood mark, with curious eye,

The lonely scene, and pass, with cautious tread,

Down the still pathway of the dying woods.

Now, round the mighty piles of corn they sit,

The aged ones, the young men, and the lads,

With here and there a son of Afric’s clime,

With eye that rolls in undiminished joy,

And mouth that ready waits to swell the laugh,

Or join the merry huskers’ drinking song.

And thus the labor of a week is done,

While wives and daughters, ’neath the farmer’s roof,

Spread out the festive board with viands rich,

And tempting to the eye of one who bears

The sweat of labor on his swarthy brow.

Now, from its yellow shuck, the ripened corn,

In well-filled ears, is drawn—a pleasant sight;

And while the village maidens pass along,

Stopping, where’er their fancy wills, to husk,

Red ears are placed within their anxious palms,

By roguish ones, who hid them for this hour;

And as they draw the crimson emblems forth,

Full many a kiss is printed on the cheek

Of rosy innocence, by lips that ne’er

Such liberty had dared to take before.

The clock strikes twelve, and from his cozy perch

Beside the fattest pullet, lo, the cock

Proclaims the approaching morn with shrillest crow!

The corn is husked, and now they gather round

The board, while lovely maidens wait to serve

With ready hand, the laborers of the eve.

Now from the lips of village sire ascends

The prayer for Heaven’s rich blessing on their food;

Thanks for the pouring out of plenty’s horn,

And gratitude for life and health—nay, more,

For liberty, without which all things else

Were vain. And while he stands with streaming eye,

And hand that palsy oft has clasped in vain,

His trembling accents fall upon the ear,

Like distant music at the close of day.

The service o’er, the merry feast begins,

Then joy runs riot round the sacred chair,

And dignified propriety is gay

As gipsy maiden, with her silver bells

Tinkling around her heels. At length the dawn

Recalls the joyous throng to other scenes;

And soon the last gay visiter has bade

His warm good-by—and the old house is still.

Left all alone, in calm security,

Straight in his oaken-chair of antique form,

Within his hall, the farmer sits and sleeps,

While the fierce house-dog watches at his feet.

Sweet hour of plenteous ease, when care puts off

His wrinkled brow, and charity and love,

The fairest sisters of the heavenly train,

Go hand in hand along the faded walks,

And sit at evening by the cottage door.

There the old soldier, covered o’er with scars,

Limping along unnoticed by the crowd,

Whose liberties were purchased with his blood,

Finds ’neath the whispering elms before the door

A welcome seat; and there the little ones,

Called from their play by watchful Towser’s growl.

And the patched dress that glory gives her sons,

Gather round their sire with mute surprise,

And list to tales of other days, when war,

With iron feet, swept thundering o’er the glade,

And reared his bloody altars on the hills.

And while they listen, lo! the soldier’s face

Grows less terrific, and his tatter’d dress

No longer seems to hide a vagrant’s form.

With stealthy look and silent step, they seek

The festive board, and silently return;

Then, while he wipes from his dim eye a tear,

They fill the old man’s pack with generous food,

Proffer the goblet full to his parched lips,

And play at “hide and seek” around his chair.

The heart of power may coldly beat when they

Who fought for freedom in her darkest hour,

In age and penury, appear to claim

The boon a monarch never yet refused;

But by the hearth-stones of his native land,

Where liberal thoughts and generous feelings dwell,

The valiant soldier ne’er shall find a churl

To bid him trudge, a rude unwelcome guest.

On Salem’s hill the Hebrews’ reign is o’er,

The silver trump of jubilee is still.

Timbrel and harp and soft-toned dulcimer

Have ceased their strains in Sharon’s rosy vale;

The scattered tribes in earth’s remotest bounds

Wander like sheep upon the mountain-side,

And Israel mourns her empire and her God.

The fisher, solitary, dries his net

On the green rock, amid the silver wave,

Where, robed in purple, sat imperial Tyre,

And through the autumn day beholds no sail,

To catch the scented breeze from Cypress Isle.

The hills of Judah, crowned with ruins gray,

Lift their brown summits to the deep blue air,

And cast their cooling shadows on the sea.

Hushed is the shepherd’s lute, the reaper’s shout,

The bleat of flocks, and patriarch’s song of praise,

The Harvester of years has o’er them past,

And hung his reaping-hook in Joseph’s tomb.

But though the trump of jubilee is still,

And Israel’s host in triumph meet no more

By Jacob’s well, or Siloa’s sacred brook;

Yet in the western world, where Freedom rears

Her banner o’er the altar of her God,

And all religions meet in peaceful mood,

At autumn’s close, the wanderers returned

To distant homes, to keep Thanksgiving Day.

Such was the custom of the Pilgrim band,

When first they trod that wild and wintry shore,

And such th’ observance of their sterling sons,

Who, scattered o’er the freeman’s heritage,

Remember their bold ancestry with pride,

And where they tread, make new New England’s bloom.

—

The days grow shorter, and the nights with frost

Creep shivering o’er the landscape’s fading green.

The village stage comes in at later hour,

From city, town, and distant boarding-school

Bringing a host of merry hearts, who seek

The joys of childhood by their native hearths;

And as it pauses at the welcome door

The inmates rush, uncovered, to the stile,

And there, ’mid kisses long and loud, is heard

The mother’s anxious inquiry for health,

The boisterous brother’s rude though hearty hail,

And happy father’s well-timed welcome home.

What joys, what transports centre in the hour

While the old mansion rings with childlike mirth.

—

For days the very atmosphere has teemed

With savory odor from the kitchen flue.

And now the day of praise begins, clear, cold and still.

While yet the sun sails up its morning path

The merry peal from village spire is heard,

And straightway pours the tide of life along,

Gathering fresh numbers from each ivied door,

Changing their greetings warm on every hand,

With those by Mammon or by glory called,

Whose wandering feet have homeward turned again:

And many a speaking eye reveals the tale

Of love long felt, but ne’er before expressed.

The church is still, and maiden modesty

Has smoothed her dress and re-arranged her curl,

Then from the choir the pealing anthem swells

With chorus grand—and voices long unused

To holy song join in the symphony

Of praise.

Prayer long and deep and eloquent ensues,

In which the earth, the nation, and the church,

The righteous and the wicked, rich and poor,

Remembrance find. And then a meet discourse,

Recounting changes of the variant year,

Paying a tribute just to absent worth,

And hanging garlands green on glory’s tomb.

The heart is touched—the mourner’s eye grows dim⁠—

The proud are humbled, and the poor rejoice.

And when the speaker closes, with a charge

To pay due homage to the Mighty One

Who guides Arcturus and his boisterous sons,

Binds the sweet influence of the Pleiades,

And breaks Orion’s broad and sparkling bonds,

All hearts, with one accord, in reverence bow,

And pure thanksgiving peals from every tongue.

The service done, they seek their cheerful hearths

To spend the hallowed day in feasts of love.

The feast is set—and joy’s wild burst is o’er⁠—

The mother’s eye has marked the vacant chair⁠—

The father’s ear has missed his first-born’s step⁠—

And where the church-yard sleeps, so still, they look

With hearts of grief, and eyes suffused with tears.

Evening with smiles and tales has come, and round

The social circle blind-man’s buff is played.

Wisdom and years are straightway laid aside,

And manhood lives its childhood o’er again,

Seeking the golden shadows of the days

Long passed away.

And now the youngest having sought repose,

Friend after friend drops in with cheerful heart;

The merry dance succeeds the merry game,

And the light foot with lighter heart keeps time.

Music is also there, with gentle tone,

Singing the favorite tunes of other days.

Age with its wrinkle, childhood with its smile,

Youth with its hope, and manhood with its care,

Joy blends with high esteem, and admiration

Kindles into love.

The old clock ticks the drowsy hours along⁠—

The midnight comes—the joyous throng disperse⁠—

Full many a head on sleepless pillow lies,

Till wearied out, with thinking o’er the past,

The mind surrenders to the body’s guide

And dreams of fancy dance before the eye.

Blest labor! thou dost fringe the poor man’s lids

With gold: and drive remembrance of his wrongs

Away—hang o’er his drowsy visions scenes

Of pleasantness, where round a cheerful cot

Wind paths of peace. Oh, Night! to him what are

The ills of day, if thou but shelter him

With brooding wing.—

Earth without labor—what a dreary waste!

Sadder to view than Asia’s barren plains

Or Afric’s sea of sand. He that would strike

Thy arm of sinews down, would make the field

A solitude, and crowded mart a den

Of thieves.—

When the moist sickle rests upon its hook,

And the rich stores of earth are gathered in,

The fair is held—a feast of fruits and flowers⁠—

Of art’s fine workmanship and labor’s yield.

From the dark pines that fringe Aroostook’s wave

To the wild chapparal that rudely turns

The martial foot from Rio Bravo’s bank,

From the Atlantic’s many-peopled shore

To the Columbia’s vales of living green,

The joyful mandate rings, and man pours forth

His richest treasures to the gaze of day.

The nation sits in judgment on her arts,

Her choice productions and her fruitful glebes,

And cheers the laborer’s toil with voice of praise.

Thus man is dignified by honest toil,

And the dread curse pronounced in Time’s young spring

Becomes a blessing in its autumn day.

So may the laborer stand amid his race⁠—

Taught that true knowledge elevates the soul,

That the poor carpenter of Galilee

Once worked his task—then in the temple taught⁠—

Then gave redemption to a guilty world⁠—

And then resumed his station by his God!

Now from the well-filled barn, in gusty day,

The flail’s loud beat is heard—a pleasing sound⁠—

And from the chaff the full unspotted grain

Is winnowed by the stripling’s feeble hand.

And while the dust is flying far and wide

The wheat is gathered in, a precious store,

Tempting the factor’s mercenary eye,

And bidding famine with her sickly form

Wander afar from Freedom’s hallowed soil;

The timid quail, with well-fledged brood, draws near,

Her tithe to claim from man’s productive toil,

And barn-yard fowls their rich thanksgivings spend,

Nor dream of days of want in time to come,

When winter o’er the frozen earth shall claim

Her sovereignty with cutting blast and snow.

Autumn departs, and soon on hills of brown,

In storms will break the dark solstitial morn.

The grove has lost its verdure and its song,

And withered leaves, in heaps, are mouldering round.

Keen northern blasts, from Greenland’s gelid wastes,

Wake the dark woods of stormy Labrador,

And o’er Canadian wilds and ocean-lakes,

Down Mississippi’s vales in fury howl.

By Huron’s flood the savage wrapped in furs

Gathers his tent of skins beneath the snow,

And ’mid the smoke, for days, securely waits

For the encrusting rain to plate the drift

With glittering ice, that cracks not at his tread,

Where he may chase the moose, whose hoofs break thro’

And leave upon the trail a track of blood.

The miner on Superior’s pictured cliffs,

Where sings the thunder its eternal hymn,

Waits in his cabin rude for hours of spring,

Giving up pleasure, and e’en health itself,

That he may climb to fortune’s fickle height

Through veins of copper, and up shafts of gold.

The pilgrim’s son, in freedom, builds his cot,

And hails a shadowy old world from the new,

On the Pacific’s main, where blooming hills

Hang o’er the flood, and catch the dying strain

Borne on the waves from India’s coral strand.

The farmer’s boy, long since amid the woods,

Has plucked the hazel and the chestnut brown,

And sharp-ribbed walnut, for his winter store,

Leaving the staining butternut untouched,

For the hoar-frost to peel its ragged shell.

The sheep go wandering o’er the barren plains

In search of welcome food, and where the scythe

Between the pointed stones has passed along,

Crop closer than the crooked blade of man

The sallow loiterers of the autumn field.

The red-breasts, gathered into flocks, no longer pipe

Their sweetest songs beside the cottage door:

And the vast family of sea-birds screech

Their notes of sadness o’er the sounding sea.

The rivers lift their voices, as the rain

From chilly clouds falls on the dreary scene,

And high above their banks in torrents swell,

Sweeping the cottage and the well-filled barn,

The dam, the bridge, and the old ivied mill,

With stacks of grain and implements of man,

In wild confusion onward to the sea.

Sad are the notes of nature—doubly sad,

Where leaping o’er her brown and dizzy height,

With robe of silver and a rainbow crown,

Niagara sings her thunder-hymn to earth’s

Remotest waters—where oft the poet’s eye

Beholds, amid the shades of autumn eve,

The Tuscarora in his phantom bark,

Singing his death-song on the cataract’s brow.

Or where, amid Virginia’s fertile vale,

The Rockbridge in its grandeur towers above

The little stream that runs so far beneath,

That human ear ne’er caught its hoarsest brawl.

There where the Deluge pierced the mountain chain

And sent its wild pent river to the sea,

The storm, with sternest music, calls its clouds,

And through the giant arch remorseless sweeps

Causing dread whirlpools of the misty air.

Autumn departs, and earth in sadness mourns,

And all around is desolate and chill.

Empires have had their autumns, and are lost

Beneath the dead and rustling leaves of time.

Egypt, majestic in her ruin, sleeps

Upon the Nile—the pyramids her history

And her tomb. Idumea, ’mid her cliffs,

Yawns in her gloom, an empty sepulchre.

Tadmor is hid amid the desert sand;

Balbec’s tremendous wall upon the waste,

Shelters the spotted lizard and the owl;

And Babylon, the mighty, is a heap

By the Euphrates. Tyre has been swallowed

By the tideless sea; Greece sits in darkness

On her classic hills, ’mid templed groves,

Her king a Saxon, and her children slaves.

The Muscovite has found a shorter way

To old Byzantium; and the lazy Turk

That loiters there, is but a Turk in name.

Dark Ethiopia knows her bounds no more;

Carthage is but a pasture wild for goats;

Persia now roams the waste in broken hordes;

Imperial Rome, once mistress of the world,

Is but a province, where a mitred priest

Sits in the Cæsar’s chair without his crown;

And the furr’d Russ directs the haughty race

Of Ghengis Khan and fiery Tamerlane.

Ages and kingdoms feel the sickle click,

And bend their heads before the reaper’s tread.

The Earth shall have her autumn, with the stars

That sang in beauty at the birth of Time;

And Death shall have his autumn, for he too

Must die. The Heavens shall have their autumn,

And be rolled back to their ancient nothingness.

And all shall fade, and fall around, and die,

But God, and the vast Hierarchy of souls.

—

Oh, death! when thou dost come with trembling limbs,

Down the brown hills, where waves the ripened grain,

And bear the aged exile home to God,

While autumn’s wailing wind sings Harvest Home.

When health’s bright roses slowly fade away,

As flowers of spring-time breathed on by the frost;

When dire consumption saps the roots of life,

And slow but sure its victims steal along

The shaded path that winds around the tomb;

Or when by burning fever racked and parched,

The prostrate form with joy awaits the call;

Or when forsaken by the loved and false,

The broken spirit sits beside the grave,

And weaves strange garlands from the withered flowers,

To crown the head-stone of departed hopes,

Thou art a welcome guest.

But when in youth and health, without a sign,

Thou comest in thy most appalling form,

Swift as the sunbeam streaming from on high,

Then thou dost rudely snap hope’s brightest buds,

And form dread sepulchres in every heart⁠—

Chasms that never close with rolling years⁠—

Wounds that forever festering, never heal,

Till deeper sorrows settle on the soul.

Autumn departs, and with it ends the song

Of the rude bard, who first essayed to sing

In high scholastic verse, its scenes of gold;

A pleasant pastime for an idle month,

When the hot sun pour’d down its sickly rays.

And pestilence at noonday walked abroad.

Autumn departs, and on its cheerless gale,

Sighing o’er barren moor and russet grove,

The feeble lay goes forth, with deep distrust,

And much of hope, entwined with more of fear.

If it shall fail—and stranger things have been,

And with the leaves around, whirl through the glen,

And up the forest’s melancholy path,

Lifeless and useless, as its withered band.

’Tis an old truth, by bard of sweetness told,

“Leaves have their time to fall, and stars to set.”

But if perchance some generous soul shall take

The half-fledged warbler to a pleasant home,

Where bright-eyed children gather in their joy⁠—

Type of the host that throng the homes of Heaven⁠—

Glean from its varied notes one sound to please,

One truth to charm and elevate the soul,

And bid young genius in her wild-wood sing,

The scenes and glories of her native land⁠—

Then shall the bard in his retreat rejoice,

And sing again, when spring, with sunny brow,

Shall speak the resurrection of the flowers.