AUTUMN SCENE IN ENGLAND.
Reading edition
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 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.
* * * * *
330The 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.
INDIAN SUMMER.
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.
AN AUTUMN LANDSCAPE.
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,
331Chimneys 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.
AUTUMN WOODS.
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 enfold
In their wide sweep the colored landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.
332I 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 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.
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 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.
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 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’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 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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