 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
AUTUMN
The pleasant sun is going up
Painting sere grass and old wood top;
The frost upon the meadow land
Like curtain wove by fairy hand
Is glowing underneath his beam;
And morning's vapor pale and thin,
Is melting off from every stream
That drinks the blessed sunlight in.
Painting sere grass and old wood top;
The frost upon the meadow land
Like curtain wove by fairy hand
Is glowing underneath his beam;
And morning's vapor pale and thin,
Is melting off from every stream
That drinks the blessed sunlight in.
Spring hath its glories,—when the gush
Of music cometh like the wave
That murmurs through the coral bush,
And round the marble architrave
Of the Deep's stony Paradise—
The untrampled garden of the waters,
Where song and loveliness entice
The listening down to Ocean's daughters;
And warmer sky and greener earth,
And deeper cloud and higher sun,—
Calling young flowers and green leaves forth
From every spot she gazes on.
And Summer hath a dower of pride—
Dark verdure on her mountain side—
The lively rain—the voiced cloud—
The thunder on the hill-tops bowed—
The greenness of her forest tree—
The breezes of her summer sea—
The fervor of her kindling noon—
The quiet of her night of moon.
Of music cometh like the wave
That murmurs through the coral bush,
And round the marble architrave
Of the Deep's stony Paradise—
The untrampled garden of the waters,
Where song and loveliness entice
The listening down to Ocean's daughters;
And warmer sky and greener earth,
And deeper cloud and higher sun,—
Calling young flowers and green leaves forth
From every spot she gazes on.
217
Dark verdure on her mountain side—
The lively rain—the voiced cloud—
The thunder on the hill-tops bowed—
The greenness of her forest tree—
The breezes of her summer sea—
The fervor of her kindling noon—
The quiet of her night of moon.
But Autumn cometh pale and sere,
With stricken heart and faded wreath,
To bend above the dying year
And yield the living up to Death!—
The winds are hoarser round her way,
The flowers receive her breath and die—
Earth's greenness changes to decay;
And withers at her passing by.
Yet there are scenes most beautiful,
Which chequer Autumn's changeful reign,
As on the eye with sorrow dull
Some fitful smiles will play again.
With stricken heart and faded wreath,
To bend above the dying year
And yield the living up to Death!—
The winds are hoarser round her way,
The flowers receive her breath and die—
Earth's greenness changes to decay;
And withers at her passing by.
Yet there are scenes most beautiful,
Which chequer Autumn's changeful reign,
As on the eye with sorrow dull
Some fitful smiles will play again.
There is a quiet beauty now
On all the living things of God;
And Nature gladdens in the glow
The grateful morning sends abroad.
The oak upon the windy hill
Yet wears its garb of summer green;
The hemlock by the moaning rill
In its perennial garb is seen
While the white birch's graceful stem
Bears lightly up its gorgeous flower—
The changeful frost-work of an hour,
And the rude walnut bough receives
The sun upon its crowded leaves,
Each colored like a topaz gem;
And the tall maple wears with them
The coronal that Autumn gives—
The harbinger of ruin near—
The wreath that Desolation weaves
Around the sunset of the year.
On all the living things of God;
And Nature gladdens in the glow
The grateful morning sends abroad.
The oak upon the windy hill
Yet wears its garb of summer green;
The hemlock by the moaning rill
In its perennial garb is seen
While the white birch's graceful stem
Bears lightly up its gorgeous flower—
The changeful frost-work of an hour,
And the rude walnut bough receives
The sun upon its crowded leaves,
Each colored like a topaz gem;
And the tall maple wears with them
The coronal that Autumn gives—
The harbinger of ruin near—
The wreath that Desolation weaves
Around the sunset of the year.
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Oh! seem not human glories dim,
With Nature thus unveiled before us,
Most glorious from the hand of Him
Whose starry curtain bendeth o'er us!
And may not hearts alive to all
The blessedness of Earth and Heaven,
Feel Nature's pure religion fall
Upon them like the dew of even;—
And gather from unbreathing things
The spiritual holiness of prayer—
And soar on high, as angels' wings
Were tracing out our pathway there!
With Nature thus unveiled before us,
Most glorious from the hand of Him
Whose starry curtain bendeth o'er us!
And may not hearts alive to all
The blessedness of Earth and Heaven,
Feel Nature's pure religion fall
Upon them like the dew of even;—
And gather from unbreathing things
The spiritual holiness of prayer—
And soar on high, as angels' wings
Were tracing out our pathway there!
The Original, January, 1830
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |