The legendary consisting of original pieces, principally illustrative of American history, scenery, and manners |
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AUTUMN MUSINGS. |
 | AUTUMN MUSINGS. The legendary |  |
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AUTUMN MUSINGS.
BY GEORGE LUNT.
Come thou with me!—if thou hast worn away
All this most glorious summer in the crowd,
Amid the dust of cities and the din,
While birds are caroling on every spray—
If, from gray dawn till solemn night's approach,
Thy soul hath wasted all its better thoughts,
Toiling and panting for a little gold,
Drudging amid the very lees of life,
For this accursed slave that makes men slaves—
Oh! come with me, into the pleasant fields;
Let Nature breathe on us and make us free.
For thou shalt hold communion, pure and high,
With the great Spirit of the universe.
It shall pervade thy soul; it shall renew
The fancies of thy boyhood; thou shalt know
Tears, most unwonted tears, dimming thine eyes;—
Thou shalt forget under the old brown oak,
That the good south wind and the liberal west
Have other tidings than the songs of birds,
Or the soft news wafted from fragrant flowers.
Look out on nature's face—and what hath she
In common with thy feelings? That brown hill—
Upon whose side, from the gray mountain ash
We gathered crimson berries—looked as brown
When the leaves fell twelve autumn suns ago.
This pleasant stream, with the well shaded verge,
All this most glorious summer in the crowd,
Amid the dust of cities and the din,
While birds are caroling on every spray—
If, from gray dawn till solemn night's approach,
Thy soul hath wasted all its better thoughts,
Toiling and panting for a little gold,
Drudging amid the very lees of life,
For this accursed slave that makes men slaves—
Oh! come with me, into the pleasant fields;
Let Nature breathe on us and make us free.
For thou shalt hold communion, pure and high,
With the great Spirit of the universe.
It shall pervade thy soul; it shall renew
The fancies of thy boyhood; thou shalt know
Tears, most unwonted tears, dimming thine eyes;—
Thou shalt forget under the old brown oak,
That the good south wind and the liberal west
Have other tidings than the songs of birds,
Or the soft news wafted from fragrant flowers.
Look out on nature's face—and what hath she
In common with thy feelings? That brown hill—
Upon whose side, from the gray mountain ash
We gathered crimson berries—looked as brown
When the leaves fell twelve autumn suns ago.
This pleasant stream, with the well shaded verge,
111
On whose fair surface have our buoyant limbs
So often played, caressing and caressed—
Its verdant banks are green as then they were—
So, went its bubbling murmur down the tide.
Yes, and the very trees—those ancient oaks,
The crimson-crested maple, waving elm,
And fair smooth ash, with leaves of graceful gold—
Look like familiar faces of old friends.
From their broadbranches drop the withered leaves—
Drop, one by one, without a single breath,
Save when some eddying curl round the old roots
Twirls them about in merry sport awhile.
They are not changed; their office is not done;
The first free breeze of spring shall see them fresh,
With sprouting twigs bursting from every branch,
As should fresh feelings from our withered hearts.
Scorn not the moral;—for while these have warmed
To annual beauty, gladdening the fields
With new and ever glorious garniture,
Thou hast grown worn and wasted—almost gray,
Even in thy very summer. 'T is for this
We have neglected Nature! wearing out
Our hearts and all life's dearest charities,
In the perpetual turmoil, when we need
To strengthen and to purify our minds
Amid the venerable woods; to hold
Chaste converse with the fountains and the winds!
So should we elevate our souls; so, be
Ready to stand and act a nobler part
In the hard, heartless struggles of the world.
Day wanes; 't is autumn's eventide again;
And, sinking on the blue hill's breast, the sun
Spreads the large bounty of his level blaze,
Lengthening the shades of mountains and tall trees,
So often played, caressing and caressed—
Its verdant banks are green as then they were—
So, went its bubbling murmur down the tide.
Yes, and the very trees—those ancient oaks,
The crimson-crested maple, waving elm,
And fair smooth ash, with leaves of graceful gold—
Look like familiar faces of old friends.
From their broadbranches drop the withered leaves—
Drop, one by one, without a single breath,
Save when some eddying curl round the old roots
Twirls them about in merry sport awhile.
They are not changed; their office is not done;
The first free breeze of spring shall see them fresh,
With sprouting twigs bursting from every branch,
As should fresh feelings from our withered hearts.
Scorn not the moral;—for while these have warmed
To annual beauty, gladdening the fields
With new and ever glorious garniture,
Thou hast grown worn and wasted—almost gray,
Even in thy very summer. 'T is for this
We have neglected Nature! wearing out
Our hearts and all life's dearest charities,
In the perpetual turmoil, when we need
To strengthen and to purify our minds
Amid the venerable woods; to hold
Chaste converse with the fountains and the winds!
So should we elevate our souls; so, be
Ready to stand and act a nobler part
In the hard, heartless struggles of the world.
Day wanes; 't is autumn's eventide again;
And, sinking on the blue hill's breast, the sun
Spreads the large bounty of his level blaze,
Lengthening the shades of mountains and tall trees,
112
And throwing blacker shadows o'er the sheet
Of this dark stream, in whose unruffled tide
Waver the bank shrub and the graceful elm,
As the gray branches and their trembling leaves
Catch the soft whisper of the coming air.
So doth it mirror every passing cloud,
And those which fill the chambers of the west
With such strange beauty, fairer than all thrones,
Blazoned with barbarous gems and gorgeous gold.
I see thy full heart gathering in thine eyes;
I see those eyes swelling with precious tears;
But if thou couldst have looked upon this scene
With a cold brow, and then turned back to thoughts
Of traffic in thy fellows' wretchedness,
Thou wert not fit to gaze upon the face
Of Nature's naked beauty—most unfit
To look on fairer things, the loveliness
Of earth's unearthly daughters, whose glad forms
And glancing eyes do kindle the great souls
Of better men to emulate pure thoughts,
And, in high action, all ennobling deeds.
But lo! the harvest-moon! she climbs as fair
Among the clustered jewels of the sky,
As, mid the rosy bowers of paradise,
Her soft light, trembling upon leaf and flower,
Smiled on the slumbers of the first-born man.
And, while her beauty is upon our hearts,
Now, let us seek our quiet home, that sleep
May come without bad dreams; may come as light
As to that yellow headed cottage boy,
Whose serious musings, as he homeward drives
His sober herd, are of the frosty dawn
And the ripe nuts, which his own hand shall pluck.
Of this dark stream, in whose unruffled tide
Waver the bank shrub and the graceful elm,
As the gray branches and their trembling leaves
Catch the soft whisper of the coming air.
So doth it mirror every passing cloud,
And those which fill the chambers of the west
With such strange beauty, fairer than all thrones,
Blazoned with barbarous gems and gorgeous gold.
I see thy full heart gathering in thine eyes;
I see those eyes swelling with precious tears;
But if thou couldst have looked upon this scene
With a cold brow, and then turned back to thoughts
Of traffic in thy fellows' wretchedness,
Thou wert not fit to gaze upon the face
Of Nature's naked beauty—most unfit
To look on fairer things, the loveliness
Of earth's unearthly daughters, whose glad forms
And glancing eyes do kindle the great souls
Of better men to emulate pure thoughts,
And, in high action, all ennobling deeds.
But lo! the harvest-moon! she climbs as fair
Among the clustered jewels of the sky,
As, mid the rosy bowers of paradise,
Her soft light, trembling upon leaf and flower,
Smiled on the slumbers of the first-born man.
And, while her beauty is upon our hearts,
Now, let us seek our quiet home, that sleep
May come without bad dreams; may come as light
As to that yellow headed cottage boy,
Whose serious musings, as he homeward drives
His sober herd, are of the frosty dawn
And the ripe nuts, which his own hand shall pluck.
113
Then, when the lark, high courier of the morn,
Looks from his airy vantage o'er the world,
And, by the music of his mounting flight,
Tells many blessed things of gushing gold
Coming in floods over the eastern wave,
Will we arise, and our pure orisons
Shall keep us in the troubles of the day.
Looks from his airy vantage o'er the world,
And, by the music of his mounting flight,
Tells many blessed things of gushing gold
Coming in floods over the eastern wave,
Will we arise, and our pure orisons
Shall keep us in the troubles of the day.
| AUTUMN MUSINGS. The legendary | |