University of Virginia Library

AUTUMN.

Now all around our wave-washed coast
Is mustering a mighty host,
Who have resolved they will maintain
A war against the golden grain,
Till not an ear is left to stand
In any quarter of the land.
Would that all conquests brought such peace,
And happiness, and rich increase.
For now the ripened corn in motion
Makes a low murmur like the ocean
When the waves rolling to and fro
In measured pauses come and go.
And the glad harvest-shout once more
Goes ringing round from shore to shore,
And reapers who crooked sickles bear,
Are moving fieldward everywhere,
From thorpe, and grange, and busy town,
By hedge-bound paths and highways brown,
For now we see on every side
All Autumn's garners open'd wide.
First the bird-boy at early morn
Is sent afield to tent the corn.
You hear his clapper going all day,
While loud he shouts, “'Way birds, away!”
The birds place watchers here and there
Who give a chirp when he draws near,
And so they eat up many an ear.
And where the reaper low is bending,
We see the heavy ears descending,
But soon to rise in plumy sheaves
On the bare furrows which he leaves.
And in those spaces will be seen
The gleaners who have come to glean,
And scarcely miss one ear at all,
Which the tanned reapers have let fall.
Children now stoop amid the stubble,
Who their poor mothers often trouble
To let them leave their work and dine
Before the village clock strikes nine;
Left with the basket they'd devour
The whole day's food within an hour.
And often has their mother said,
“They would eat me if I was bread.”
Now for the wains a passage wide
Is made by throwing gates aside.
And all the hedges on the road
Are hung with ears dragg'd from the load.
And birds soon quit the plants in seed,
On such a rich repast to feed;
And those that fall upon the ground
Will be by long-tailed field-mice found.
And added to the little hoard,
Which they for winter wants have stored.
Autumn has still a few choice flowers
Which Summer left to deck her bowers.
The meadow-sweet's rich creamy truss,
And the pink ground-convolvulus.
The slender hare-bell, whose rich blue,
Is only worn by those who're true.
The eyebright, white and golden green,
Oft near the rose-a-ruby seen,
And crimson ling, and purple heather
That in the breeze both bow together,
And the deep scarlet pimpernel,
By which the hour of day we tell;
And fern steeped in the richest dye
That sunset throws about the sky.
Beautiful are the hop-grounds now,
Each bunch looks like a golden bough,
Reflecting back the ray that shines.
And there's a perfume in the bines
Of may-buds, blent with new-made hay;
A drowsy air doth round us play,
And in a sleepy land we seem—
Where we might lie at ease and dream,
All curtained round with green and gold—
Such as John Bunyan did behold.
Merry are they who gather in
The fragrant cones that fill the bin,
Though poor is the hop-picker's cheer
At this last harvest of the year,
That makes our Christmas ale and beer.
When Summer's flowers are all in blow
They make not a more gorgeous show
Than the rich patterns Autumn weaves
In looms of many-coloured leaves,
Where every colour we behold
And all the changing shades of gold.
And sweet green spots, the leaves concealed,
Through the rent curtains are revealed,
Wood, vale, and stream, the village spire
Whose vane the sunset tips with fire.
And sometimes as the day grows old
The white flock moving to the fold,
And many a picture hid in green
Till Autumn lifted up the scene.
When Autumn closes, what a roar
There is in those old forests hoar,
When the huge branches clash together
In dark November's windy weather,
And the tall trees come thundering down
On which the little squirrel brown
Had hid his nuts in some sly hole
The woodpecker made in the bole;
And there the woodman plies his trade
From dawn until the day doth fade,
Clearing away the underwood
Which tall and close in summer stood;
And many a bundle he will make—
Faggots and hurdles, post and stake,
And stacks of firewood piled up high
To meet cold Winter now so nigh;
And there the poor will find good picking
When to the woods they go “a-sticking,”
For many a mossy bough's laid low
By Autumn winds that loudly blow,
And from the oaks come pattering down
The acorns on the ferns so brown,
On which the hungry herd of swine
Will soon come grunting up to dine.