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[Virginia]
SUMMER has gone, | |
| And fruitful Autumn has advanced so far | |
| That there is warmth, not heat, in the broad sun, | |
| And you may look, with naked eye, upon | |
| The ardors of his car; | 5 |
| The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks embolden, | |
| Are making the green leaves golden. | |
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| What a brave splendor | |
| Is in the October air! how rich, and clear, | |
| And bracing, and all-joyous! We must render | 10 |
| Love to the Spring-time, with its sproutings tender, | |
| As to a child quite dear; | |
| But Autumn is a thing of perfect glory, | |
| A manhood not yet hoary. | |
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| I love the woods, | 15 |
| In this good season of the liberal year; | |
| I love to seek their leafy solitudes, | |
| And give myself to melancholy moods, | |
| With no intruder near, | |
| And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder, | 20 |
| In every natural wonder. | |
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| But not alone, | |
| As Shakespeare’s melancholy courtier loved Ardennes, | |
| Love I the browning forest; and I own | |
| I would not oft have mused, as he, but flown | 25 |
| To hunt with Amiens— | |
| And little thought, as up the bold deer bounded, | |
| Of the sad creature wounded. | |
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| A brave and good, | |
| But world-worn knight—soul-wearied with his part | 30 |
| In this vexed life—gave man for solitude, | |
| And built a lodge, and lived in Wantley wood, | |
| To hear the belling hart. | |
| It was a gentle taste, but its sweet sadness | |
| Yields to the hunter’s madness. | 35 |
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| What passionate | |
| And keen delight is in the proud swift chase! | |
| Go out what time the lark at heaven’s red gate | |
| Soars joyously singing—quite infuriate | |
| With the high pride of his place; | 40 |
| What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning | |
| In its first bright adorning. | |
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| Hark! the quick horn— | |
| As sweet to hear as any clarion— | |
| Piercing with silver call the ear of morn; | 45 |
| And mark the steeds, stout Curtal and Topthorne, | |
| And Greysteil and the Don— | |
| Each one of them his fiery mood displaying | |
| With pawing and with neighing. | |
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| Urge your swift horse | 50 |
| After the crying hounds in this fresh hour; | |
| Vanquish high hills, stem perilous streams perforce, | |
| On the free plain give free wings to your course, | |
| And you will know the power | |
| Of the brave chase,—and how of griefs the sorest | 55 |
| A cure is in the forest. | |
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| Or stalk the deer; | |
| The same red lip of dawn has kissed the hills, | |
| The gladdest sounds are crowding on your ear, | |
| There is a life in all the atmosphere:— | 60 |
| Your very nature fills | |
| With the fresh hour, as up the hills aspiring | |
| You climb with limbs untiring. | |
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| It is a fair | |
| And goodly sight to see the antlered stag | 65 |
| With the long sweep of his swift walk repair | |
| To join his brothers; or the plethoric bear | |
| Lying in some high crag, | |
| With pinky eyes half closed, but broad head shaking, | |
| As gadflies keep him waking. | 70 |
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| And these you see, | |
| And, seeing them, you travel to their death | |
| With a slow, stealthy step, from tree to tree, | |
| Noting the wind, however faint it be. | |
| The hunter draws a breath | 75 |
| In times like these, which, he will say, repays him | |
| For all care that waylays him. | |
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| A strong joy fills | |
| (A joy beyond the tongue’s expressive power) | |
| My heart in Autumn weather—fills and thrills! | 80 |
| And I would rather stalk the breezy hills | |
| Descending to my bower | |
| Nightly, by the sweet spirit of Peace attended, | |
| Than pine where life is splendid. | |
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