| |
| ERE, in the northern gale, | |
| The summer tresses of the trees are gone, | |
| The woods of autumn, all around our vale, | |
| Have put their glory on. | |
| |
| The mountains that infold | 5 |
| In their wide sweep, the color’d landscape round, | |
| Seem groups of giant kings in purple and gold, | |
| That guard the enchanted ground. | |
| |
| I roam the woods that crown | |
| The upland, where the mingled splendors glow, | 10 |
| Where the gay company of trees look down | |
| On the green fields below. | |
| |
| My steps are not alone | |
| In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play, | |
| Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown | 15 |
| Along the winding way. | |
| |
| And far in heaven, the while, | |
| The sun, that sends that gale to wander here, | |
| Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile,— | |
| The sweetest of the year. | 20 |
| |
| Where now the solemn shade, | |
| Verdure and gloom where many branches meet; | |
| So grateful, when the noon of summer made | |
| The valleys sick with heat? | |
| |
| Let in through all the trees | 25 |
| Come the strange rays; the forest depths are bright; | |
| Their sunny-color’d foliage, in the breeze, | |
| Twinkles, like beams of light. | |
| |
| The rivulet, late unseen, | |
| Where bickering through the shrubs its waters run, | 30 |
| Shines with the image of its golden screen, | |
| And glimmerings of the sun. | |
| |
| But, ’neath yon crimson tree, | |
| Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, | |
| Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, | 35 |
| Her blush of maiden shame. | |
| |
| Oh, Autumn! why so soon | |
| Depart the hues that make thy forests glad; | |
| Thy gentle wind and thy fair sunny noon, | |
| And leave thee wild and sad! | 40 |
| |
| Ah, ’t were a lot too blest | |
| For ever in thy color’d shades to stray | |
| Amidst the kisses of the soft southwest | |
| To rove and dream for aye; | |
| |
| And leave the vain low strife | 45 |
| That makes men mad—the tug for wealth and power, | |
| The passions and the cares that wither life, | |
| And waste its little hour. | |
| |
