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I OCTOBER’S woods are bright and gay, a thousand colours vie | |
| To win the golden smiles the Sun sends gleaming through the sky; | |
| And though the flowers are dead and gone, one garden seems the earth, | |
| For in God’s world, as one charm dies, another starts to birth. | |
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II To every season is its own peculiar beauty given, | 5 |
| In every age of mortal men we see the Hand of Heaven; | |
| And century to century utters a glorious speech, | |
| And peace to war, and war to peace, eternal lessons teach. | |
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III O grand old woods, your forest-sires were thus as bright and gay, | |
| Before the axe’s murderous voice had spoiled their sylvan play; | 10 |
| When other axes smote our sires, and laid them stiff and low | |
| On Hastings’ unforgotten field, eight hundred years ago. | |
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IV Eight hundred years ago, long years, before Jacques Cartier clomb | |
| The Royal Height, where now no more the red men fearless roam! | |
| Eight hundred years ago, long years before Columbus came | 15 |
| From stately Spain to find the world that ought to bear his name! | |
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V The Sussex woods were bright and red on that October morn, | |
| And Sussex soil was red with blood before the next was born; | |
| But from that red united clay another race did start | |
| On the great stage of destiny to act a noble part. | 20 |
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VI So God doth mould, as pleaseth Him, the nations of His choice; | |
| Now, in the battle-cry is heard His purifying voice; | |
| And now, with Orphic strains of peace he draws to nationhood | |
| The scattered tribes that dwell apart by mountain, sea, and wood. | |
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VII He took the lonely poet Celt and taught him Roman lore; | 25 |
| Then from the wealds of Saxony He brought the sons of Thor; | |
| Next from his craggy home the Dane came riding o’er the sea; | |
| And last, came William with his bands of Norman chivalry. | |
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VIII And now, as our young nationhood is struggling into birth, | |
| God grant its infant pulse may beat with our forefathers’ worth! | 30 |
| And, as we gather into one, let us recall with pride | |
| That we are of the blood of those who fought when Harold died. | |
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