| |
| WITHIN the sober realm of leafless trees, | |
| The russet year inhaled the dreamy air; | |
| Like some tanned reaper, in his hour of ease, | |
| When all the fields are lying brown and bare. | |
| |
| The gray barns looking from their hazy hills, | 5 |
| O’er the dun waters widening in the vales, | |
| Sent down the air a greeting to the mills | |
| On the dull thunder of alternate flails. | |
| |
| All sights were mellowed and all sounds subdued, | |
| The hills seemed further and the stream sang low, | 10 |
| As in a dream the distant woodman hewed | |
| His winter log with many a muffled blow. | |
| |
| The embattled forests, erewhile armed with gold, | |
| Their banners bright with every martial hue, | |
| Now stood like some sad, beaten host of old, | 15 |
| Withdrawn afar in Time’s remotest blue. | |
| |
| On slumb’rous wings the vulture held his flight; | |
| The dove scarce heard its sighing mate’s complaint; | |
| And, like a star slow drowning in the light, | |
| The village church-vane seemed to pale and faint. | 20 |
| |
| The sentinel-cock upon the hillside crew,— | |
| Crew thrice,—and all was stiller than before; | |
| Silent, till some replying warden blew | |
| His alien horn, and then was heard no more. | |
| |
| Where erst the jay, within the elm’s tall crest, | 25 |
| Made garrulous trouble round her unfledged young; | |
| And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, | |
| By every light wind like a censer swung;— | |
| |
| Where sang the noisy martens of the eaves, | |
| The busy swallows circling ever near,— | 30 |
| Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes, | |
| An early harvest and a plenteous year;— | |
| |
| Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast | |
| Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at morn, | |
| To warn the reaper of the rosy east:— | 35 |
| All now was sunless, empty, and forlorn. | |
| |
| Alone from out the stubble piped the quail, | |
| And croaked the crow through all the dreamy gloom; | |
| Alone the pheasant, drumming in the vale, | |
| Made echo to the distant cottage-loom. | 40 |
| |
| There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; | |
| The spiders moved their thin shrouds night by night, | |
| The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, | |
| Sailed slowly by,—passed noiseless out of sight. | |
| |
| Amid all this—in this most cheerless air, | 45 |
| And where the woodbine shed upon the porch | |
| Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there | |
| Firing the floor with his inverted torch,— | |
| |
| Amid all this, the centre of the scene, | |
| The white-haired matron with monotonous tread | 50 |
| Plied the swift wheel, and with her joyless mien | |
| Sat, like a fate, and watched the flying thread. | |
| |
| She had known Sorrow,—he had walked with her, | |
| Oft supped, and broke the bitter ashen crust; | |
| And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir | 55 |
| Of his black mantle trailing in the dust. | |
| |
| While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom, | |
| Her country summoned and she gave her all; | |
| And twice War bowed to her his sable plume,— | |
| Re-gave the swords to rust upon the wall. | 60 |
| |
| Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew | |
| And struck for Liberty the dying blow; | |
| Nor him who, to his sire and country true, | |
| Fell mid the ranks of the invading foe. | |
| |
| Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, | 65 |
| Like the low murmur of a hive at noon; | |
| Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone | |
| Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. | |
| |
| At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed; | |
| Life dropt the distaff through his hands serene; | 70 |
| And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud, | |
| While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene. | |
| |
