 | Beads from a Rosary |  |
78
AUTUMN.
Thou hast set up thy standard,
Of the red and burning gold;
In the stately forests of the land
Are its gorgeous hues unrolled.
Thou hast set up thy standard,
And the green earth owns thy might;
She hath cast her greenness at thy feet,
To honour thee aright,
And with queenly pomp and splendonr,
In her garments rich and new,
She calleth to the frowning Heaven,
To give thee honour too.
Of the red and burning gold;
In the stately forests of the land
Are its gorgeous hues unrolled.
Thou hast set up thy standard,
And the green earth owns thy might;
She hath cast her greenness at thy feet,
To honour thee aright,
And with queenly pomp and splendonr,
In her garments rich and new,
She calleth to the frowning Heaven,
To give thee honour too.
But the frowning Heaven looks darkly down
With aspect stern and cold;
And, one by one, the gathering clouds
Across her face are roll'd.
She saith, “Oh, wayward, changeful earth,
Thou hast cast thy strength away,
For a shadow, and a mockery,
And a swift and sure decay.
Behold thy thy trust!”—Ha! fierce and free,
Sweeps down the torrent rain;
The north wind bursts his prison bars,
And rides the storm again;
And the queenly pomp, and the gorgeous hues,
And the red and burning gold,
They are borne on high—they are whirl'd around,
They are stamped in the clay of the miry ground,
And their glory's a tale that's told.
Thou hast set up thy standard,
With aspect stern and cold;
79
Across her face are roll'd.
She saith, “Oh, wayward, changeful earth,
Thou hast cast thy strength away,
For a shadow, and a mockery,
And a swift and sure decay.
Behold thy thy trust!”—Ha! fierce and free,
Sweeps down the torrent rain;
The north wind bursts his prison bars,
And rides the storm again;
And the queenly pomp, and the gorgeous hues,
And the red and burning gold,
They are borne on high—they are whirl'd around,
They are stamped in the clay of the miry ground,
And their glory's a tale that's told.
Oh Autumn, ghast and drear!
But the earth doth shrink from thy phantom sway,
With a look of shuddering fear.
80
With a bent, discrowned head,
Or gazeth mournfully around,
And counteth o'er her dead.
And evermore she moaneth,
“I have cast my strength away,
For a shadow and a mockery,
And a swift and sure decay.”
| Beads from a Rosary | |