V.

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.

[Illustration: [Pastoral Scene]]

ODE

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 gay To visit Damon’s bower!

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 forlorn To weep the parting year!

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 eye This dying scene survey! Haste, Winter, haste; usurp the sky; Complete my bower’s decay!

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.

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 breast That ever sung so well.

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 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.

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 supplies Can soothe our sorrows more.

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.

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 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, 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 share Once more his social hour; Ah, Spring! thou never can’st repair His loss to Damon’s bower. WILLIAM SHENSTONE, 1714–1763.

SONG.

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’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!

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!

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 of_ BERESFORD. JOHAN GEORG. JACOBI, 1740–1814.

AUTUMN SCENE IN ENGLAND.

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.

* * * * *

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.

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,

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.

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.

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 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.