The Fall of the Leaf :: :: University of Virginia Library

Behold'st thy form reflected, and thy face
Furrow'd with many a scar;—impressions rude
Of Nature's seal;—more lasting than the signs
Carved on Mount Sinai; from whose sacred top
Th' Egyptian shepherd view'd the aged piles
Of pyramids immortal;—listen to my lay!
And pour thine influence on thy poet's lyre;
That he may charm the silent ear of night,
And teach vain man the moral of thy song.
For now eve's web invests each distant hill
With twilight grey; as if some spirit wove
The net aerial:—while the golden west
Melts into purple;—such as oft were seen
In old Atlantis, or the orange groves
Of fair Hesperia, when immortal nymphs
Guarded the sacred fruit:—O listen to my lay!
For now the bee no longer buoyant flies,
With loaded thigh, or sweet, distended bag,
And fluttering wings so musical;—but hangs
On a rough cluster of its murmuring tribe,
While all is silence in its honey'd hive.
The flocks repose;—the weary hunter rests;
And lowing herds now ruminate alone
Beside the babbling brook;—the peasant's nest,

'Neath yonder copse, that overlooks the glen,
Dusky and secret, mantled o'er with vines,
E'en from its threshold to its chimney top,
No longer winds its volumes through the air,
Marking the comfort and the peace within.—
Winding round shrubs, and arch'd by towering pines,
Oaks, elms, or sycamores, the woodbine wild
Throws a righ fragrance on the wing of night;
While birds of eve the blushing rose-bud woo,
Or hymn soft vespers to thy rising ray.