 | The vigil of faith, and other poems |  |
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INDIAN SUMMER, 1828.
Light as love's smiles the silvery mist at morn
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The Blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air he carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving;
Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping.
Floats in loose flakes along the limpid river;
The Blue-bird's notes upon the soft breeze borne,
As high in air he carols, faintly quiver;
The weeping birch, like banners idly waving,
Bends to the stream, its spicy branches laving;
Beaded with dew the witch-elm's tassels shiver;
The timid rabbit from the furze is peeping,
And from the springy spray the squirrel's gaily leaping.
I love thee, Autumn, for thy scenery, ere
The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes
That richly deck the slow-declining year;
I love the splendor of thy sun-set skies,
The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf,
Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief;
I love the note of each wild bird that flies,
As on the wind he pours his parting lay,
And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.
The blasts of winter chase the varied dyes
80
I love the splendor of thy sun-set skies,
The gorgeous hues that tinge each failing leaf,
Lovely as beauty's cheek, as woman's love too, brief;
I love the note of each wild bird that flies,
As on the wind he pours his parting lay,
And wings her loitering flight to summer climes away.
Oh Nature! fondly I still turn to thee
With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;—
Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be,
Toward thee I still the same devotion bear;
To thee—to thee—though health and hope no more
Life's wasted verdure may to me restore—
Still—still, child-like I come, as when in prayer
I bowed my head upon a mother's knee,
And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.
With feelings fresh as e'er my childhood's were;—
Though wild and passion-tost my youth may be,
Toward thee I still the same devotion bear;
To thee—to thee—though health and hope no more
Life's wasted verdure may to me restore—
Still—still, child-like I come, as when in prayer
I bowed my head upon a mother's knee,
And deemed the world, like her, all truth and purity.
| The vigil of faith, and other poems | |