 | The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince |  |
319
OCTOBER.
October a blithe and benevolent fellow,
Is here with his tresses enwreathed with the vine;
His broad visage glowing with purple and yellow,
As if he had quaffed of his own barley-wine.
Is here with his tresses enwreathed with the vine;
His broad visage glowing with purple and yellow,
As if he had quaffed of his own barley-wine.
His cloud-car of shifting and shadowy whiteness,
Up caught in mid air through the welkin careers;
His shield is the harvest moon, blest in her brightness,
His sword a light sickle, untarnished with tears.
Up caught in mid air through the welkin careers;
His shield is the harvest moon, blest in her brightness,
His sword a light sickle, untarnished with tears.
His crown is a corn-sheaf—magnificent, truly!
Which whispers of peace as it waves to and fro;
His mantle of forest leaves, shaken down newly,
Is clasped with a belt of ripe apple and sloe.
Which whispers of peace as it waves to and fro;
His mantle of forest leaves, shaken down newly,
Is clasped with a belt of ripe apple and sloe.
'Tis a time for thanksgiving, oh let us be grateful
For beauties and bounties the season hath brought!
The heart of that being is woeful or hateful
Who can not, or will not, rejoice as he ought.
For beauties and bounties the season hath brought!
The heart of that being is woeful or hateful
Who can not, or will not, rejoice as he ought.
The grain in the garner, the grape in the presses,
Give earnest of plenty, and promise of joy;
And the soul, in the language of silence, confesses
His goodness, whose mandate can make or destroy.
Give earnest of plenty, and promise of joy;
And the soul, in the language of silence, confesses
His goodness, whose mandate can make or destroy.
Come, walk me the landscape, and cheerfully follow
The beck of our free-footed fancies to-day,—
By wild-wood and river-path, hill-side and hollow,
From shadows and sounds of the city away;
The beck of our free-footed fancies to-day,—
By wild-wood and river-path, hill-side and hollow,
From shadows and sounds of the city away;
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For children are out on their devious ramble
(Sweet childhood! I cling to thy memories yet),
Who rifle the hazel-bough, halt by the bramble,
And stain laughing lips with its fruitage of jet.
(Sweet childhood! I cling to thy memories yet),
Who rifle the hazel-bough, halt by the bramble,
And stain laughing lips with its fruitage of jet.
How golden the garment of sunlight that covers
Earth's manifold features of glory and grace!
How teeming with silver the cloud-fleece that hovers
Above, in the measureless marvel of space!
Earth's manifold features of glory and grace!
How teeming with silver the cloud-fleece that hovers
Above, in the measureless marvel of space!
The solemn old woods how they sadden! and slumber
In gorgeous tranquillity, fading though fair,
As if some rich sunset of hues, without number,
Had fallen, and rested in permanence there.
In gorgeous tranquillity, fading though fair,
As if some rich sunset of hues, without number,
Had fallen, and rested in permanence there.
The cuckoo is gone, and the swallow prepareth
To wing his broad passage to far distant bowers;
Some region of splendours and spices, that weareth
The freshly-born beauties of bright summer hours.
To wing his broad passage to far distant bowers;
Some region of splendours and spices, that weareth
The freshly-born beauties of bright summer hours.
Now turn we our steps, for the lusty sun lieth,
O'erhung with his banners of flame, in the west;
The rook to his cloud-gazing citadel flieth,
The hind to his homestead, the steer to his rest.
O'erhung with his banners of flame, in the west;
The rook to his cloud-gazing citadel flieth,
The hind to his homestead, the steer to his rest.
Let us feast upon nature, for silence and sadness
Will fling their stern fetters about her, ere long;
But the heart that is wont to partake of her gladness
Will find her, still living and blooming, in song.
Will fling their stern fetters about her, ere long;
But the heart that is wont to partake of her gladness
Will find her, still living and blooming, in song.
High thought! that the soul of our mould is immortal!
Unwithered, unwasted, by season or time;
That a springtide eternal may open its portal,
And beckon us in to a happier clime!
Unwithered, unwasted, by season or time;
That a springtide eternal may open its portal,
And beckon us in to a happier clime!
| The Poetical Works of John Critchley Prince | |