 | The Poetical Works of David Gray |  |
175
October.
Sweet Muse and well-beloved, with my decline
Declining, like a rose crushed unawares,
Having too early knowledge of decay,
Too subtle pleasure to behold the tree
Shed its thin foliage on the sluggish stream,—
What a sweet subject for thy silver sounds!
Declining, like a rose crushed unawares,
Having too early knowledge of decay,
Too subtle pleasure to behold the tree
Shed its thin foliage on the sluggish stream,—
What a sweet subject for thy silver sounds!
O for a quill pluck'd from the soaring wing
Of an archangel, dipped in holy dew,
To catch thy latest looks, thou loveliest
October, o'er the many-coloured woods!
October! vastlier disconsolate
Than Saturn guiding melancholy spheres,
Through ante-mundane silence and ripe death.
Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare,
And the vermilion fruitage of the brier
Is soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost;
Ere warm Spring nests are coldly to be seen
Tenantless, but for rain and the cold snow,
While yet there is a loveliness abroad,—
The frail and indescribable loveliness
Of a fair form Life with reluctance leaves,
Being there only powerful,—while the earth
Wears sackcloth in her great prophetic grief:—
Of an archangel, dipped in holy dew,
To catch thy latest looks, thou loveliest
October, o'er the many-coloured woods!
176
Than Saturn guiding melancholy spheres,
Through ante-mundane silence and ripe death.
Ere the last stack is housed, and woods are bare,
And the vermilion fruitage of the brier
Is soaked in mist, or shrivelled up with frost;
Ere warm Spring nests are coldly to be seen
Tenantless, but for rain and the cold snow,
While yet there is a loveliness abroad,—
The frail and indescribable loveliness
Of a fair form Life with reluctance leaves,
Being there only powerful,—while the earth
Wears sackcloth in her great prophetic grief:—
Then the reflective melancholy soul,—
Aimlessly wandering with slow falling foot
The heath'ry solitude, in hope to assuage
The cunning humour of his malady,—
Loses his painful bitterness, and feels
His own specific sorrows one by one
Taken up in the huge dolour of all things.
Aimlessly wandering with slow falling foot
The heath'ry solitude, in hope to assuage
The cunning humour of his malady,—
Loses his painful bitterness, and feels
177
Taken up in the huge dolour of all things.
O the sweet melancholy of the time
When gently, ere the heart appeals, the year
Shines in the fatal beauty of decay!
When the sun sinks enlarged on Carronben,
Nakedly visible without a cloud,
And faintly from the faint eternal blue
(That dim, sweet harebell-colour) comes the star
Which evening wears;—when Luggie flows in mist,
And in the cottage windows one by one,
With sudden twinkle household lamps are lit,
What noiseless falling of the faded leaf!
When gently, ere the heart appeals, the year
Shines in the fatal beauty of decay!
When the sun sinks enlarged on Carronben,
Nakedly visible without a cloud,
And faintly from the faint eternal blue
(That dim, sweet harebell-colour) comes the star
Which evening wears;—when Luggie flows in mist,
And in the cottage windows one by one,
With sudden twinkle household lamps are lit,
What noiseless falling of the faded leaf!
Sweet on a blossoming summer's afternoon,
When Fancy plays the wizard in the brain,
Idly to saunter thro'a lusty wood!
But sweeter far—by how much sweeter, God
Alone hath knowledge—in a pensive mood,
Outstretched on green moss-velvet floss'd with thyme,
To watch the fall o' the leaf before the moon
Shines out in sweet completion circular.
For when the sunset hath withdrawn its gold
And tawny glimmering, like the surcease
Of rich, low melody, erst inaudible streams
Find voices in their still unwearied flow;
And winds that have been much above the moors
And mountains, have a deadly feel of cold,
Forespeaking clear blue dawns and frosty chill.
When Fancy plays the wizard in the brain,
Idly to saunter thro'a lusty wood!
But sweeter far—by how much sweeter, God
178
Outstretched on green moss-velvet floss'd with thyme,
To watch the fall o' the leaf before the moon
Shines out in sweet completion circular.
For when the sunset hath withdrawn its gold
And tawny glimmering, like the surcease
Of rich, low melody, erst inaudible streams
Find voices in their still unwearied flow;
And winds that have been much above the moors
And mountains, have a deadly feel of cold,
Forespeaking clear blue dawns and frosty chill.
| The Poetical Works of David Gray | |