 | Poems |  |
56
AUTUMN.
Autumn, thou garner of the year!
Again thy sober step is here;
Again thy mellow scenes appear
In russet clad;
Abounding with thy wonted cheer,
To make us glad.
Again thy sober step is here;
Again thy mellow scenes appear
In russet clad;
Abounding with thy wonted cheer,
To make us glad.
The Spring may boast her flowers fair,
And Summer all her charms declare;
But, Autumn, 't is thy saddened air
Charms most my heart!
King of the ever-rolling year,
I own thou art!
And Summer all her charms declare;
But, Autumn, 't is thy saddened air
Charms most my heart!
King of the ever-rolling year,
I own thou art!
The morning opens fresh and chill.
The mist from off the winding rill
Creeps slowly up the neighboring hill,
And o'er away;
And early cocks, distant and shrill,
Usher the day.
The mist from off the winding rill
Creeps slowly up the neighboring hill,
And o'er away;
And early cocks, distant and shrill,
Usher the day.
Betimes aroused, the well-paid sower
Throws open wide the folding door,
And spreads upon the threshing-floor
The wheaten sheaves;
And in their heads, now beaten sore,
No grain he leaves.
Throws open wide the folding door,
And spreads upon the threshing-floor
The wheaten sheaves;
And in their heads, now beaten sore,
No grain he leaves.
I love to hear the sounding flail.
It always tells a busy tale
Of ruddy health, and labor hale,
With plenty blest;
“Seed time and harvest” ne'er should fail
Beneath its test.
It always tells a busy tale
Of ruddy health, and labor hale,
With plenty blest;
“Seed time and harvest” ne'er should fail
Beneath its test.
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The forest bellows forth a sound—
The sportsman walks his murderous round,
And squirrels tumble to the ground,
And pheasants die;
While, coursing far, the deep-mouthed hound
Yelps quick and high.
The sportsman walks his murderous round,
And squirrels tumble to the ground,
And pheasants die;
While, coursing far, the deep-mouthed hound
Yelps quick and high.
See yonder o'er the furrowed plain,
Attracted by the scattered grain,
The pigeons in a countless train
Now densely throng;
Anon they form a lengthened chain,
And skim along.
Attracted by the scattered grain,
The pigeons in a countless train
Now densely throng;
Anon they form a lengthened chain,
And skim along.
Ye woody hills that tower near!
Whilom your shades were filled with deer,
And the red Indian, too, was here,
But long ago
Did every antler disappear,
And Indian, too.
Whilom your shades were filled with deer,
And the red Indian, too, was here,
But long ago
Did every antler disappear,
And Indian, too.
And Autumn mourns the sylvan chief—
Her wailing winds bespeak her grief;
The faded flower and falling leaf
Bewail his end;
While she withholds the yellow sheaf
She used to lend.
Her wailing winds bespeak her grief;
The faded flower and falling leaf
Bewail his end;
While she withholds the yellow sheaf
She used to lend.
Is then our rich corn-harvest done,
And the bright ears forever gone?
Tho' grieving sore, I frankly own
The grievance just—
Our fathers ploughed, and we have sown
In hopeful trust;
And the bright ears forever gone?
Tho' grieving sore, I frankly own
The grievance just—
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In hopeful trust;
But wrongs of a departed race
Rise up to stare me in the face,
And there, methinks, the cause I trace
Of this our grief;
Once 't was no sin, but rather grace,
To steal a sheaf!
Rise up to stare me in the face,
And there, methinks, the cause I trace
Of this our grief;
Once 't was no sin, but rather grace,
To steal a sheaf!
The sun has climbed to noonday high.
See the shorn fields around me lie
Beneath the dingy, smoky sky,
Pleasant to view;
Beyond the gauzy veil descry
The vault of blue!
See the shorn fields around me lie
Beneath the dingy, smoky sky,
Pleasant to view;
Beyond the gauzy veil descry
The vault of blue!
Hark to the sounds of boyish glee
That come from yon tall hickory;
The gleaners mount the breezy tree,
And thresh the limbs;
And oft one bids another see
How high he climbs!
That come from yon tall hickory;
The gleaners mount the breezy tree,
And thresh the limbs;
And oft one bids another see
How high he climbs!
Pomona
here with fulness crowned
Showers her fruit upon the ground;
Scattered in golden heaps around
She spreads her board;
With plenty all her gifts abound,
Her garners stored.
Showers her fruit upon the ground;
Scattered in golden heaps around
She spreads her board;
With plenty all her gifts abound,
Her garners stored.
Mind ye those distant sounds that come
Upon the ear, resembling some
The rolling, rattling, stirring drum,
Tho' sharp and shrill?
A merry thing, and nowise dumb—
The cider-mill.
Upon the ear, resembling some
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Tho' sharp and shrill?
A merry thing, and nowise dumb—
The cider-mill.
But now 't is getting out of date;
The people have conceived a hate
Of this old-fashioned thing of late,
And worse than all,
The few that stand can hardly wait
Their time to fall.
The people have conceived a hate
Of this old-fashioned thing of late,
And worse than all,
The few that stand can hardly wait
Their time to fall.
I marvel not that it is so.
Streams change their channels as they go,
And some forever cease to flow,
Sun-dried at last;
The cider stream is running low—
Its flood is past.
Streams change their channels as they go,
And some forever cease to flow,
Sun-dried at last;
The cider stream is running low—
Its flood is past.
Some persons of discerning wit
Complain that men have wasted it,
Who deemed its juices all unfit
For wholesome drink.
But here the subject let me quit—
The more to think.
Complain that men have wasted it,
Who deemed its juices all unfit
For wholesome drink.
But here the subject let me quit—
The more to think.
The day now hastens to a close,
The weary sun to his repose;
Skirting the woods the restless crows
Croak discontent;
And from the field the ploughman goes,
Slow homeward bent.
The weary sun to his repose;
Skirting the woods the restless crows
Croak discontent;
And from the field the ploughman goes,
Slow homeward bent.
Yonder is Nimrod's hopeful son,
With trap in hand and shouldered gun;
Now that the day of toil is done
He seeks the mead
In which the marsh-fed streamlets run,
And musk-rats breed.
With trap in hand and shouldered gun;
Now that the day of toil is done
He seeks the mead
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And musk-rats breed.
There by the dusky fading light
He lays his snares with practised sleight,
So artfully concealed from sight
And baited well,
That none except the cunning wight
The trap could tell.
He lays his snares with practised sleight,
So artfully concealed from sight
And baited well,
That none except the cunning wight
The trap could tell.
Twilight is past. Night shuts the scene!
The spreading plains of faded green,
The woody hills, the vales between,
And streams that roar,
Illumed by Phœbus' glittering sheen,
Are seen no more.
The spreading plains of faded green,
The woody hills, the vales between,
And streams that roar,
Illumed by Phœbus' glittering sheen,
Are seen no more.
Day and its scenes no more inspire;
But see around the evening fire
The halesome youth and sober sire,
The matron dame,
The sprightly lass in plain attire—
We ken the same.
But see around the evening fire
The halesome youth and sober sire,
The matron dame,
The sprightly lass in plain attire—
We ken the same.
O, ye who love a city's noise,
Who pride yourselves on tinseled toys,
Whose stupid ease the mind destroys,
A showy host!
Behold the cotter's humble joys—
New-England's boast!
Who pride yourselves on tinseled toys,
Whose stupid ease the mind destroys,
A showy host!
Behold the cotter's humble joys—
New-England's boast!
Autumn, thou dost a moral give
To teach us mortals how to live;
Not for this world alone to strive—
It cannot last;
Nor for its shining sands to grieve—
They 're sliding fast.
To teach us mortals how to live;
Not for this world alone to strive—
It cannot last;
Nor for its shining sands to grieve—
They 're sliding fast.
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Spring, the gay morn of life is gone;
Summer, and manhood's bloom, are flown;
Autumn, and age come hastening on,
While Winter's breath
Seems with its chilling hollow moan
To usher death.
Summer, and manhood's bloom, are flown;
Autumn, and age come hastening on,
While Winter's breath
Seems with its chilling hollow moan
To usher death.
So, mortal, live that not the shade
Of that grim king can make afraid
When low beneath the turf is laid
Thy “house of clay”;
And like pale Autumn calmly fade
In death away.
Of that grim king can make afraid
When low beneath the turf is laid
Thy “house of clay”;
And like pale Autumn calmly fade
In death away.
For several preceding years (1837) the fall months have grown so cold that it has been with extreme difficulty that Indian CORN could be ripened at all; and farmers in some parts of New-England have abandoned the raising of the article altogether, for the same reason.
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