III.

Burying the basement of the skies October's mists hang dull and red, And with each wild gust's fall and rise, The yellow leaves are round me spread. 'Tis the third autumn, ay, so long, Since memory 'neath this very bough, Thrilled my sad lyre strings into song-- What shall unlock their music now?

Then sang I of a sweet hope changed, Of pale hands beckoning, glad health fled, Of hearts grown careless or estranged, Of friends, or living, lost, or dead. O living lost, forever lost, Your light still lingers, faint and far, As if an awful shadow crossed The bright disk of the morning star.

Blow, autumn, in thy wildest wrath, Down from the northern woodlands, blow! Drift the last wild-flowers from my path-- What care I for the summer now? Yet shrink I, trembling and afraid, From searching glances inward thrown; What deep foundation have I laid, For any joyance, not my own?

While with my poor, unskilful hands, Half hopeful, half in vague alarm, Building up walls of shining sands That fell and faded with the storm, E'en now my bosom shakes with fear, Like the last leaflets of this bough, For through the silence I can hear, "Unprofitable servant, thou!"

Yet have there been, there are to-day In spite of health, or hope's decline, Fountains of beauty sealed away From every mortal eye but mine. Even dreams have filled my soul with light, and on my way their beauty left, As if the darkness of the night Were by some planet's rising cleft.

And peace hath in my heart been born, That shut from memory all life's ills, In walking with the blue-eyed morn Among the white mists of the hills. And joyous, I have heard the wails That heave the wild woods to and fro, When autumn's crown of crimson pales Beneath the winter's hand of snow.

Once, leaving all its lovely mates, On yonder lightning-withered tree, That vainly for the springtime waits, A wild bird perched and sang for me. And listening to the clear sweet strain That came like sunshine o'er the day My forehead's hot and burning pain, Fell like a crown of thorns away.

But shadows from the western height Are stretching to the valley low, For through the cloudy gates of night The day is passing, solemn, slow. While o'er yon blue and rocky steep The moon, half hidden in the mist, Waits for the loving wind to keep The promise of the twilight tryst--

Come thou, whose meek blue eyes divine, What thou, and only thou canst see, I wait to put my hand in thine-- What answer sendest thou to me? Ah! thoughts of one whom helpless blight Had pushed from all fair hope apart, Making it thenceforth hers to fight The stormy battles of the heart.

Well, I have no complaint of wrath, And no reproaches for my doom; Spring cannot blossom in thy path So bright as I would have it bloom.