Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

The pleasures of the favourite village during Autumn—the sight of harvest and its toils—of the shepherd digging bird-coops —of gleaners—of harvest still protracted in the flat country—of the midnight storm in harvest-time—of the harvest-moon rising. The pleasure of walking home late at night at this season—of spending the evening at home—of walking out early in the morning of September—of listening to the drone—of pitying the brood—of hearing the equinoctial gale by night—of climbing the cliff the following morning —of viewing the sea troubled as well as calm. Contemplations on the fall of the leaf.

Let Summer 'gin decline, yet pleasure still
Shall with the poet dwell. Be the field brown:
No longer now stand smilingly erect
The bearded ear, or spike of nobler grain,
But, sear alike, droop both, and hang the head,
And stoop the shoulder, to their annual toil
The keen hook calling and voracious scythe.
How groans the soil with its incumbent load!
Lo! in my native vale the reaper's hand
Gathers the fruitful ear and binds the sheaf,
Betimes industrious, nor its endless task
Quits till the moon above the shadowy down

Lifts her bright orb to light him to repose.
Let morning dawn, and ev'ry village-team
Comes forth to bear, or to the rick, or grange,
The shocks of plenty in arrangement meet
Along the bristly stubble-field dispos'd.
All hands are busy, and one common spring
Of lively int'rest actuates the scene.
Rous'd by example, industry at home
The secret impulse of endeavour feels,
And toils alert. The very shepherd churl,
Accustom'd in the rear of his slow flock
To creep inert, or lean upon his crook
In vacant contemplation, or recline
And with his curs upon the mountain bask,
Puts on agility, digs his long line
Of turf-turn'd coops along the sunny brow,
Trims the slight springe of hair, and neatly hides
Beneath the hollow'd sward his double noose.
So when the sever'd cloud of airy day
Flits through the blue expanse, and the bright orb
Wraps often in the veil of brief eclipse,
The tim'rous wheatear, fearful of the shade,

Trips to the hostile shelter of the clod,
And where she sought protection finds a snare.
Poor heedless simpleton, to shun a foe
Void of annoyance, and destruction seek
Where danger least was fear'd. Seiz'd by the springe,
She flutters for lost liberty in vain,
A costly morsel, destin'd for the board
Of well-fed luxury, if no kind friend,
No gentle passenger, the noose dissolve,
And give her to the free-born wing again.
Incautious bird, such as thy lot is now,
Such once was mine. By his arch foe beguil'd,
Man slipt into the toil, and pitiless death
Had in its strong chain bound him. Yet found he
A kind Deliverer, who burst his bonds,
And the vast price of restoration paid.
Divine Preserver, thine immense desert
Shall my fond hand at distance imitate,
And to the feath'ry captive give release,
The pence of ransom placing in its stead.
Go, fool, be cheated of thy wing no more.
Freedom is thine, and pleasure lives with me.

Yet, though it cheat the wheatear of its life,
Condemn not thou, my muse, the sullen cloud
Which often quenches in its gloomy folds
The sultry beam of day, assuaging shade,
To him that reaps, and him that wields the scythe,
Or plies the fork, or builds the load, or trails
The ling'ring rake embarrass'd, at high noon
Affording freely. Opportune the shield
His canopy bestows; and shelter'd thus
Toil becomes nimble, industry alert,
And the wide field re-echoes with the sound
Of merriment indulg'd, and not repress'd
By Autumn's suffocating heat intense.
The treader of the mow enjoys within
The mitigated air, nor finds the grange
A melting oven, by the sultry load
Fresh from the field with double heat supplied,
Till Hell seem present, wanting but its flames,
And thirst insatiable his dusty lip
And strangled fauces without mercy parch.

Now let the reaper, tawny with his toil,
Cut with unwearied hook and eager grasp

The last unlevell'd acre, and enjoy
To see the village street pour forth its dames
And laughing little ones, to glean at large
Where'er the huddled sheaf once stood erect.
How glows the heart to dwell upon the scene,
When harvest thus enlivens every field
That girds the hamlet round, when sport and toil
Seem hand in hand, and pleasure lives with all!

Thy early grain, my native valley, hous'd,
Still with protracted pleasure the fond bard
Surveys the weald, on whose more chilly lap
Brown harvest loiters. With recruited joy
Marks he the fervent bustle of the field,
And greets anew the sickle, and the swain,
Who, to his fair shirt peel'd, from dusky dawn
To latest twilight gathers the full ear,
And reaping fills, or girding plants erect
The multitudinous sheaf. How full of cheer,
Joyous, devout, and grateful is the soul,
To see again its unexhausted God
Thus pile the table of a world with bread!
For what's the globe on which we all subsist?

The table of immortal bounty 'tis,
A feast perpetual, where unnumber'd sons
Sit down to banquet as their sires withdraw,
And in succession generations feed,
Contented rise, give thanks, and pass away.

Awful the pleasure now, if midnight storm
Illuminate with quick repeated flash
Valley and hill, to catch a sudden glimpse
Of tree and hedge-row, village, field and shock,
Dancing in lightning's transitory gleam:
To see the thunderbolt with fiery arm
Arrest the mountain top, and sweal his brow,
While round the sultry theatre of heaven
The peal impatient rides, and steeds of gloom
Whirl his benighted car from pole to pole.

Be night serene, and her fair moon replete,
And other pleasures shall the bard attend.
Planet of harvest, oft in the dun east
Thy full autumnal orb let me behold
As from a furnace rising red with heat,
And, while it mounts the purple steep of heaven,
Glowing more ardent, till it seem to reach

The point of fusion, and, suspended high,
A globe intense of molten bullion hang
Amid the gems of night. And let me hear,
As thy dim orb above th' horizon swells,
The shout of harvest-home, the loud huzza,
The natural hallelujah of the clown,
His chorus of thanksgiving for release.

Now let me mark civility's arrears
Where'er recorded, and repay at eve
The long-due visit to the distant friend,
That, by the full orb lighted, I may march
Mute and contemplative at leisure home.
Mild be the temp'rature of heav'n, serene
The silent atmosphere. Let fancy deem
She feels the moon-beam warm. Be nothing heard,
Save the far-distant murmur of the deep—
Or the near grasshopper's incessant note,
That snug beneath the wall in comfort sits,
And chirping imitates the silvery chink
Of wages told into the ploughman's palm—
Or gentle curlew bidding kind good night
To the spent villager, or e'er his hand

The cottage taper quench—or grazing ox
His dewy supper from the savoury herb
Audibly gathering—or cheerful hind
From the lov'd harvest feast returning home,
Whistling at intervals some rustic air,
Or at due distance chanting in the vale
Exhilarated song. Such rural sounds,
If haply notic'd by the musing mind,
Sweet interruption yield, and thrice improve
The solemn luxury of idle thought.

Oft at yon huddled town, that guards remote
The sounding ship-yard and contiguous port,
By sweet civility detain'd, the bridge,
At such late hour returning, let me pass;
What time aloft the moon, no more rotund,
Shines gibbous o'er the pure and still expanse
Of tide-uplifted Ouse, and lends to Night
An ample mirror, where her sober eye,
Her twinkling jewelry and face serene
Thrice placid and thrice beauteous, may behold.

If not abroad I sit, but sip at home
The cheering beverage of fading eve,

By some fair hand, or e'er it reach the lip,
With mingled flavour tinctur'd of the cane
And Asiatic leaf, let the mute flock,
As from the window studious looks mine eye,
Steal foldward nibbling o'er the shadowy down,
And take their farewel of the savoury turf.
Let the reluctant milch-kine of the farm
Wind slowly from the pasture to the pail.
Let the glad ox, unyok'd, make haste to field,
And the stout wain-horse, of encumbrance stript,
Shake his enormous limbs with blund'ring speed,
Eager to gratify his famish'd lip
With taste of herbage, and the meadow brook.

To him who in the beam of morning walks,
How lovely blossoms the September rose,
Which, unexpected, 'mid his flow'rless shrubs
Unfolds its blushing solitary bud,
Humid with autumn's equinoctial tear,
And, bowing with the gale, the treasur'd dew
Sheds in abundance from its leaning cup!
To him not pleasureless, as o'er the down
He roams contemplative, the mystic spot

Where fable dreams the midnight fairies dance,
A ring of deepest verdure, thick beset
With mushrooms rosy-gill'd and cloth'd in snow,
Seats for the wearied fay perhaps, minute,
If ample, tables for the royal feast
Of Mab and Oberon. Such poor account
Gives baffled reason, in her childish mood,
Of the mysterious cause that wields unseen
The compasses of heaven, and circumscribes
The free fantastic circle of the hill.

Not without pleasure hears the bard the voice
Of drone inert, from the rich hive dismiss'd,
Seeking apartments in the riven wall
Of some old edifice, and sounding loud
His drowsy horn at the convenient mouth
Of auger-hole profound, his best retreat,
There long to sleep, and winter's storm defy.
Not such delight affords the senseless fowl,
Which now, with sedulous maternal care,
Her brood of twitt'ring little ones leads forth,
And fondly cautions. Grievous is the sight,
However welcome when soft spring prevails,

Now to behold her from the secret nest
The cheerful troop conducting. Silly bird!
It is the sun of autumn, not of prime,
Whose fost'ring beam invigorates awhile
Thy happy race. 'Tis not the smile of May,
But faint October flattery, soon fled.
Or e'er to-morrow's sun in clouds descend,
The show'ry occident's o'erwhelming gust
Thee and thy hover'd train shall almost drown,
Be shelter'd as thou wilt. And if thou 'scape
The deluge prone-descending, the keen North
Shall pinch them bitterly; for now the breeze
The morning blush provokes on beauty's cheek,
And nature's own inimitable rose
Gives to the human face angelic charms.

Unwelcome howls the equinoctial gale
To him who hears it on his orchard floor
Shower the midnight apple or the pear.
But not unwelcome to the pilfering boy
Blows the rude hurricane, who pockets snug
The batter'd windfall, whether pear or plum,
Apple or walnut, and in secret feasts;

Nor to the swine, perchance, who shares his spoil,
Or finds beneath the oak a plenteous meal
Of acorns thrash'd and winnow'd by the gale.
Nor more unwelcome howls the storm to me.
Pleasant the hearth and converse snug within,
While the nocturnal tempest raves without,
For entrance buffeting the sash in vain;
And while the sullen show'r from the drench'd eaves
Drips fast, and on the flooded pavement spanks.
In such a night, who feels not Heav'n his friend,
To bless him with a warm secure abode
Impervious to the blast and chilly show'r?
Who feels it not vast privilege, to sit
And court the glowing embers of his hearth,
Till at his bidding their aspiring flames
Illuminate and cheer his farthest room?
Who deems it not rich pleasure, then, to read
By the clear taper unannoy'd, or sweep
The strings of harmony unvex'd, and hear
At ev'ry pause the persevering storm
Rave at his window, in his chimney howl?
Who thinks his lot unhappy, then, to sup

At an ill-furnish'd board, whose only fare
Springs from the dairy and the winnow'd floor?
Who deems not shelter and a crust a feast,
To the hard fate of him who plods without
Fatigued and weather-foil'd, or his more hard
Who wrestles with inclement skies above
And tossing seas beneath, nor dares retire,
Fearful of shipwreck, till the dawn returns?
Is he not lapp'd in Paradise, who thinks,
Ere slumber close his eyes, how others toil,
While peace and comfort curtain him around?

If morn, attended by the storm, awake,
Glad let me mount the cloud-invading cliff,
Which from the hollow of the vale beneath
Suddenly springs, as if Britannia here
First rose insurgent on the tyrant deep,
And her vast limbs to his assault oppos'd.
There let me mark the conflict, from above,
When, by the tempest aided, Ocean sacks
And wears the precipice with giant war:
When the grim thunder-cloud assault upholds,
And with his forky bolt and roaring peal

100

E'en to its base the cloven mountain shakes.
There also let me sometimes stand, when peace
Reigns in the vale below, and view well-pleas'd
The quiet element that smiles beneath,
Image of patience, as the cygnet's down
Gentle and inoffensive. Far extends,
And far as it outstretches lies unmov'd
The marble flood, a spacious pavement, smooth
And fairly polish'd. 'Tis the floor of heaven,
Which none but God's own foot presumes to tread.

Tide of the falling leaf, let others sing
Of thy ten thousand tints; I love them not.
Oft as I mark upon the woody vale
The hue rubiginous of fast decline,
I sigh to think how soon the lovely scene
Shall pass away, how soon the whiffling gale
Shall strip its faded honours from the grove,
And whirl them in its tyrant mood aloft,
Or idly sweep and hurry them along
Through park and paradise, or urge them fierce
Into the dank and solitary pit.
Yes, I could wail aloud, shed very tears,

101

And stamp for anguish at a scene like this.
Once only loves my soul to see the gale
Seize the dry leaf, and worry it along—
When the dwarf oak, that all the winter through
Has stood tenacious of its wither'd pride,
And the sear beech, of its old whisp'ring spoils
Alike retentive, sheds them to the breeze,
Erelong intending to be fairer cloth'd,
And with more lovely foliage grace the wood.
I could thy persecution then enjoy,
Thou playful gust, that hurries from my sight
The perish'd leaf of the departed year.
I could the ling'ring fugitive pursue,
Howl after him like thee, and bid him hide
His ugly aspect in the darksome cave.
But shall I join thee now, or praise the cry
Which hastens Autumn to an early fall,
Which ruins elegance, and rural pride,
And all the eye and all the heart adores
Of beauty that adorns the summer vale?
No, let me mourn thy rapid tyranny,
That lays the prospect waste, and bid thee urge

102

With more becoming zeal the loit'ring steps
Of uncouth Winter, shrugging at the blast,
And slow approaching with frost-bitten heel,
Step after step, from his cold Arctic cell.