No bird recalls the melodies of June,
No flower its sweets, no bough its rustling shades!
Through all the roofless grove the sun stares in
With unobstructed gaze, and as we pass,
Twin shadows glide beside us arm in arm,
With silent footfall on the dying leaves.
When now we pause, 'tis not with jocund lips
To swell the sylvan gladness, but to blend
Our sigh with nature's, as in funeral stole,
Forlorn she follows Autumn's passing bier.
And, dearest, while I mark thy downcast eyes,
A mist is stealing o'er their wonted smiles;
And from their azure depths the silver rain
Falls audibly upon the rustling leaves.
Yet know, sweet mourner, and assured, take heart,
That 'neath these russet cerements, not in death,
But quick quiescence, sleep the hopes of Spring!
No sced, no germ, no bulb of vanished flower,
No folded bud in all the bosky wild,
Is numbered with the dying or the dead:
Nay, in the palsied heart of these bare trees,
Life's lingering pulse, though faint and cold, still beats.
A few brief months, and we will stand again
On the green summit of this forest knoll;
And list, enchanted, to the flying harps,
That fill the leafy aisles with vernal joy.
Before our steps the velvet sward again
Shall spread its sun-flecked shadows, and full oft
By marge of murmuring stream, thy fairy foot
Shall sink in tufted violets instep deep;
What time the cornel and the hawthorn cast
Their snowy blossoms on the scented air,
And every floral chrysalis awakes
To life and beauty from its shrouded sleep.
Meanwhile, dear friend, in our suburban cot,
Thy favorite flowers shall bloom the Winter long,
And day and night, with silent lips still breathe
Sweet-scented thanks to thee; for in thy smiles
They shall not miss the charm of sunny skies,
Nor in thy household songs, remember more
The song of birds, but deem 'tis Summer still.
Thyself their Flora, from thy genial hand
Shall fall the needed dews each coming morn,
Till vernal suns and voice of vernal choirs
Shall call us forth to these dear wilds again!
WRINKLED, crabbed man they picture thee,
Old Winter! with a rugged beard as gray
As the long moss upon the apple-tree;
Blue-lipt; an ice-drop at thy sharp, blue nose; Close muffled up, and on thy dreary way
Plodding, alone, through sleet and drifting snows. They should have drawn thee by the high-heapt hearth, Old Winter! seated in thy great arm-chair, Watching the children at their Christmas mirth; Or circled by them, as thy lips declare Some merry jest or tale of murder dire,
Or troubled spirit that disturbs the night, Pausing at times to rouse the mouldering fire,
Or taste the old October brown and bright.
TO A FRIEND, WITH SOME CHINESE CHRYSANTHEMUMS.
THE sunlight falls on hill and dale
With slanter beam and fainter glow,
And wilder on the ruthless gale
The woodnymphs pour their sylvan wo:
Yet these fair forms of Orient race
Still graced my garden's blighted bowers,
And lent to Autumn's mournful face
The charm of Summer's rosy hours.
When shivering seized the dying year,
They shrunk not from the icy blast;
But stayed, like funeral friends, to cheer
The void from which the loved had passed.
Thus, Lady, when life's coming blight
Has paled thy dimples' vernal glow,
And dimmed thine orbs of starry light,
And flecked thy raven locks with snow;
Shall love, like these sweet lingerers, seem
Still lovelier for thy faded prime,
And gild with softer, holier beam
The waste of Beauty's Autumn time!
TO AN ORANGE-TREE RECEIVED FROM THE WEST INDIES LATE IN
FROM thine Eden of the sea
Where eternal Summer smiles
On the green Caribbean isles,
Borne to this ungenial clime
In the scowling Autumn time,
Poor forlorn one, be of cheer,
Hope is here!
|