Now in the fading woods, the Autumn blast
Chants its old hymn--a melancholy sound!
And look! the yellow leaves are dropping fast,
And earth looks bleak and desolate around.
The flowers have lost their glorious scent and bloom,
And shiver now as flies the tempest by;
To some far clime hath flown the wild birds plume,
To greener woods, and some serener sky,
The reaper's sheaf hath now grown white and thin;
The bearded wheat, and golden ear of corn,
The jocund husbandman have gathered in;
And from the fields the seedy hay is borne.
The orchards all have showered their treasures down,
In many a pile of crimson and of gold;
There will be wealth of sparkling juice to crown,
The foamy glass, when the Year's death is knolled.
Still are these barren-hills! save when the tree
Falls 'neath the far-off woodman's measured stroke;
Or when the squirrel chatters noisily,
Or carrion crow screams from the leafless oak.
Methinks there's something sad in thy decay
Oh! merry-hearted Autumn! like a man
Whose head is in his prime of years turned gray,
The red cheek in a little hour made wan!
Poet! doth no regret o'ercast thy dream,
To see the good old Autumn thus depart!
And gloom fast-dark'ning Summer's golden gleam,
E'en as afflictions change the cheerful heart.
Even as I follow to his lowly bed,
The ashes of some kind, and well-beloved friend,
So with a saddened eye and mournful tread,
I see thee, Autumn! to oblivion tend.
Yet beautiful are thy last fleeting days,
When glows the hectic on thy dying cheek;
When leaves are red, clouds bright, and hangs the haze
In many a colored fold, of gaudy streak.
I hear the voice of Autumn! the deep dirge
Hymned plaintively within his ruined hall,
Its solemn sound comes like the beating surge,
Or thunder of the distant water-fall!
