Then came the Automne, all in yellow clad,
A Dirge for the departed Ones, AND A MERRY GREETING TO AUTUMN.
Fair Spring died months ago; Brought brighter flowers than she. Spring had the Snowdrop pure, And the soft-eyed Violet; But these might not endureWith Rose and Mignionette. Spring wore the Primrose pale, And the glowing Fairy-fire;[1] But e'en such gems must failBy Summer's brave attire.
And soon they all were gone. And Spring did slowly wane, Till one sun-glorious day She yielded up her reign,And vanished away.
Each fairer than the other. She looked from out the sky With eyes of laughing blue, And the fervid sun on highSmiled gaily earthward too. She laid her hand on sea, River, and brook, and lake, And all flowed peacefully,And scarce a wave did make. She stripped the hoary hills Of all their capes of snow, And bade the mountain rillsRun singing as they go.
Yellow and white together. She made the day-break glad and bright, And softly calm the gloaming, For lovers fond, who in the lightOf the silver moon were roaming. Oh! Summer was a glorious queen, But sorrow soon came o'er her; Her flowers of beauty waned, I ween,Like Spring's young buds before Her. The Rose, her fairest darling, fell, And left but thorns behind; The Woodbine, Jasmine, lost their smell,—The lilies all declined. And one by one they drooped and died, Till all had passed away; And where triumphant Summer's prideHad been—'twas dim decay. And Summer in bright tears of dew Their mournful loss so wept, That she made dim her eyes of blue,And then—poor Summer slept.
Autumn. (Allegro è spiritoso.)
Come, greet merry Autumn, she's heiress of Spring, And the Harebell's soft music be ours. Sing, hey for bright Autumn! her triumphs we'll speak,And love her rich gifts and her bonny brown cheek. She has wealth all uncounted; the blossoms of Spring Fell fluttering down from the spray, But they left in their place each a germ that should bringA rich treasure for Autumn to-day. Then, hey for the heiress! her treasures we'll seek,And love the deep tinge of her bonny brown cheek. She hath swelling hills girdled with broad belts of gold, All waving so bright i' the sun; She hath fruits fair as jewels, that cannot be told;And all this vast wealth may be won! Then, hey for rich Autumn! and, ere the trees break,Go gather the fruit with the bloom on its cheek!
And the Blackberry's fruit shall be mine. Away! o'er the hills where the breezy winds speak,Singing hey for rich Autumn's bright eye and brown cheek! Away o'er the mountains! where Heather-bells ring, Away, where the tall Foxgloves wave, Where the wild Rose we loved 'mid the flow'rets of SpringHath a monument left o'er her grave; For her bright berries stand like an epitaph there,To remind us of one so short-lived and so fair. Away o'er the hills, to the deep dingle, where O'er the rocks, like a tapestry, flung, Hang broadly the Blackberry bushes, for thereNo statelier tree would have sprung. Then clinging and clambering warily down,Beware of your footing—and eke of your gown. The gourmand may smile at our rustic dessert, But there's a sweet infantine thrill Of gladness and glee that comes over my heart In these scenes, and I feel a child still: Oh! I would not exchange a rough Blackberry dell For aught that in orchard or garden may dwell!
It tells where the poppies have died,— Where the petals of scarlet will wither and fade,For the young flowers in death by the ripe corn are laid. They fall in their beauty ere rent by a storm, They are gone, ere the wandering bee Hath nestled within e'en one delicate formNow lying all wan on the lea. Alas! for the young and the beautiful now,The fairest must oft 'neath the keen sickle bow. Come now to the Forest, for Autumn is there, She is painting its millions of leaves With colours so varied, so rich, and so rare,That the eye scarce her cunning believes; She tinges and changes each leaf o'er and o'er,And flings it to earth when 'twill vary no more. The glorious Cedars she ever in vain Tries to dress in chamelion hue, For they brave all her arts, and the verdure retainOf their Spring-time the whole Winter through. And the sturdy Scots Fir lifts its dark-crested headUnchanged o'er the path where the brown leaves are spread.
With his weapon-girt leaves till they bled; And some drops that were caught on the berries he bore,Gave the deep ruddy glow that they ever since wore. The Ferns, too, are waving all statelily here, With seed-stored fronds thickly laid; And shedding, when hastily brushed by the deer,Their light fertile dust o'er the glade. Oh, beautiful—beautiful! stately, yet gay,Is a deep forest-glen on a bright Autumn day! Oh! look on the strange and the whimsical things That among the wild fungi we find; And lichens, and moss that like fairy-work springs,—If ye love them not all, ye are blind; Ye are blind unto Nature's most glorious looks,If ye read not and love not her forest-born books. Then welcome we Autumn, rich heiress of Spring, Who fills our dear home-land with glee: True, Winter is coming—yet still will we singThrice welcome, gay Autumn, to thee! And oft o'er the uplands our voices shall speakOf Autumn's bright treasures and bonny brown cheek.
CARNATIONS AND CAVALIERS.
Oh! Ladyes—ye who Lovers have, List to the tale I tell. A Ladye and her Lover once, In a Summer evening-tide, Within a stately garden walked,And whispered, side by side. The Ladye fair and graceful was, And well-beloved, I ween, By her true Cavalier; than whomA braver ne'er was seen. And in the garden wandered they, Nor wist which way they went: They gazed into each other's faceIn Love's own blest content. On paced they through the pleached paths, Where honey-suckles crept, And, drooping from the boughs o'erhead,The pensile streamers, swept In graceful chaplets round They eloquently talked. The Knight had dwelt in southern climes Beneath a warmer sun, And learned the language of the Flowers,And fancies many a one That Poet-Lovers gave To herb, and leaf, and flower, That they might Love's ambassadorsBe in the fair-one's bower. Without a line of written vows Fond hearts were oft-times plighted; And flowers, too, could tell whene'erA proffered suit was slighted. The Heartsease promised "perfect love;" Hope in the Hawthorn lay; Despair and death with hemlock dwelt,And glory claimed the Bay.— And so to all the garden's hues Some fair conceit was given, By which young Cupid's bonds might beLocked closer still, or riven.
In this quaint graceful lore:— But Edith (as dames mostly do), Liked Learning less than Love; The owl of Pallas she would shunTo seek Cytherea's dove. And so it chanced that she forgot Full many a fancy sweet, And sometimes gave, in careless mood,Flowers for the time unmeet. The eve I tell of 'gan to close, Fast fell the soft twilight; And the young moon amid the leavesPeeped forth, all chaste and bright.
To hide behind a screen Of leaves,—which Zephyr wavedThat she might peer between. And o'er the shut and sleepy flowers 'Gan weep the Summer-dew; And o'er the lakelet's breast there glow'd A yet intenser blue. As from the breast of heaven looked out The few and timid rays Of the first stars that venture forthAfter the Sun-God's blaze. And our fond Lovers twain must part— The Ladye Edith sighed— And whispered—"Here again, my Love,We meet at even-tide?"— Sir Rupert smiled—and from the bank A Pink then gather'd he, And said—"sweet Ladye of my Love,Edith—take this, from me." Now ye who read this tale, perchance, Than Edith know no more The language that fair flower would speak,In Flora's emblem-lore?
Should be—a plain gold ring. Now Edith knew its meaning not, Or had forgotten quite; And all unconsciously she thus Grieved her own true Knight:— "And is the paltry pink the flower That I must wear for thee?— I'll find a brighter, fitter one, That thou shalt take from me."
Hied she a flower to choose. And once again she sighed—"Farewell!"— The Knight alone was left— And in his hand the token-flower—Fair Edith's parting gift. The Pink, by Knight to Ladye given, Prays her to be his Bride— The proud Carnation answering tellsThat fervent prayer's denied. Now ye who know what 'tis to love, Think what Sir Rupert felt, As on that flower, with wond'ring griefHis eyes still sadly dwelt. He dreamed not that twas idly done, In careless sportive freak; To him that token-flower brought Woe more than words could speak; And the brave Rupert's true heart seemed Full even as 'twould break. The Ladye to her Father's Hall Went gaily bounding back: More pensively Sir Rupert pacedAlong his homeward track. And welcome was a gallant guest Who that night sat him by; They had been friends in early youth,Brothers in chivalrie. "What aileth thee," Sir Maurice said, "That thou dost shun the bowl? That cloud upon thy brow bespeaksA sorrow on thy soul— Ha! is it Love? that thou dost wear Yon token on thy breast?" For now the fatal flower peeped outFrom Rupert's broidered vest. And all the tale of woe is told— And all Love's misery— And Maurice cried, "The morrow's mornThou shalt away with me—
In tournay break a lance. Now, out upon thy Ladye-Love, Whose favours thou shalt wear. My own sweet sister—she shall weave Those eyes so blue and bright. And if thou can'st e'en then be sad, Shall make each one a wing. And bid all sadness fly away— All bravely dight we go." ***** Ere long, in battle's dread array What did one eventide!
Fate sped the shaft to him. From off his steed down sunk the Knight; The Archer-youth looked on A moment's space—then bow and shaftsFlung from him every one, And by the wounded Rupert knelt— 'Twas strange to see a foe Striving all tenderly to staunchThe blood he caused to flow! 'Twas stanger yet to mark the tears, That in a quick warm shower, Streamed from that archers eyes, when fellA crushed long-faded flower From Rupert's vest.—It seemed, in sooth, Some charm of wizard power, Which thus that Archer's spirit quelledIn such a stirring hour. Stranger and yet more strange it seemed, When cap and waving plume Unheeded from his brow fell down,And i' the sun, like shining gold, Rich wavy hair in many a fold Shaded his cheek's soft bloom. His cheeks!—No—Rupert, as he gazed, "My Edith!—is it thou?"— ***** And it was woman's love or hate— Her own true Knight to kill. He deemed her false—and she soon knew This wild revenge had taken. "And could'st thou dream thine Edith false, Vows kept so faithfully— And thou hast wooed another love—
From that dear hand of thine. And now, mine Edith—we will still In sport use floral lore, But never, Love, in sober truth,Trust such frail emblems more. And oft again, when loit'ring late In garden or in grove, We'll wreath our brows with woodbine sweet,That fragrant 'tie of Love;' And when, with orange blossoms crowned, My Edith walks a bride, Her pathway shall be strewn with flowers,In all their rainbow pride." And so they talked—these lovers twain— And pleased themselves full well— But few, methinks, will wish that ITheir talk again should tell. For though, no doubt, each pretty word To them was music sweet, I ne'er yet found a third who thoughtSuch converse any treat,
And a ring of dark brown hair. She smiled upon his moody brow, And at his downcast eye; But ne'er did love for Rupert costGay Constance one light sigh. She gave to him the broidered scarf— She gave the glossy hair— But they were cheated sore, who thoughtThe maiden's heart was there. And while Sir Maurice fought in France, Gay Constance hied away With her young Chieftain to his Tower,High o'er the salt sea spray. Sir Maurice vowed that woman kind Too changeful were for him— But may be he'll be changing too,Ere many moons be dim. Now, Ladye—when a Cavalier His rent-roll you may think; And then—provided his estateDon't meet your approbation, It cannot, surely, be too lateTo cut—with a Carnation.
THE CHIME OF THE HAREBELLS.
Over the moorland, over the lea, Dancing airily, there are we; Sometimes, mounted on stems aloft, We wave o'er Broom and Heather, To meet the kiss of the zephyr soft:Sometimes, close together, Tired of dancing, tired of peeping, Under the whin you'll find us sleeping:Nodding about and dreaming too; Dreaming of fairy cups of dew— Dreaming of music, soft and low As the melodies that flow In tiniest ripples along the pool, In Summer twilights dim, When the night-wind's breath is cool, And downy owlets skim Lightly along from shore to shore, Flitting about, as if they boreUpon their trembling wings (That ne'er are seen by day) Dreams and visions, fantastic things, That people the Lily's slumberings With a shadowy array Of forms that Flowers know and see When they are dreaming, e'en as we Merry Harebells do On the heathery lea. Maiden—do not you Often wish you were a Flower, Spending one or two Merry days in greenwood bower, As the Harebells do, Dancing, and waving, and ringing in glee, Over the moorland and over the lea? Daintily bend we our honeyed bells While the gossiping bee her story tells, And drowsily hums and murmurs on Of the wealth to her waxen storehouse gone, And though she gathers our sweets the while, We welcome her in with a nod and a smile.
And every form of swiftest flight, Like arrows, guided by glittering wings,The dragon-flies play in the sunshine bright, That tinges their forms of chamelion hue With emerald, ruby, amber, and blue.You'd fancy the rainbow's painted dome A fitting home For creatures so airy, so light, so gay, As the dragon-flies all in the breeze at play. And, poised on the tips Of their tiny feet, They steal from our lips A kiss so fleet, That ere our delicate heads are tost In feigned anger, the thief is lost, Gone—flitting along o'er moor and lea, Where the thisile-down sails so airily.
Ye gaze around, Chasing the sound, And, marvelling whence the strain is springing, Murmur, "how softly the wind is singing!" We chime too gently for ye to tell The silvery voice of the little Harebell. No rock is too high—no vale too low— For our fragile and tremulous forms to grow: Sometimes we crown The castle's dizziest tower, and lookLaughingly down On the pigmy men in the world below,Wearily wandering to and fro. Sometimes we dwell on the cragged crest Of mountain high; And the ruddy sun, from the blue sea's breastClimbing the sky, Looks from his couch of glory up,And lights the dew in the Harebell's cup.
Then chiming our lullaby, tired with play. Are we not beautiful? Oh! are not we The darlings of mountain, and moorland and lea? Plunge in the forest—are we not fair? Go to the high road—we'll meet ye there, Oh! where is the flower that content may tell Like the laughing, and nodding, and dancing Harebell?
The Foxgloves and the Fern, That, drooping, clusters round Creatures of fancy, joy, and revelrie.
CONVOLVULI AND MIGNIONETTE. (BEAUTY AND SWEETNESS.)
How well two maidens may be imaged here! One in Convolvula's all-beauteous face, That with the richest colour deeply glows, Conscious and proud of her great loveliness:— And then in Mignionette's meek humble form, Without one tint upon her modest garb To draw the idle stare of wandering eyes, Which greedily the other's beauty drink. How well the young and fair are here shown forth! For some—aye, many, prize a rosy cheek, A sparkling eye—or lip where rubies strive With coral the bright mastery to gain, Above all other wealth. E'en like this flower, The gay Convolvulus, which spreads her form Of fragile short-lived loveliness before The flattering beams of the deceitful sun, And basks her in his light, and thinks, poor bud Of foolish vanity—that such will last:— But soon the noontide glare falls scorchingly Upon her waning charms—she hangs her head—Her boasted beauty shrivels and decays, And outward show, her only gift, is gone. Now look ye on the plain and modest guise Of yon unlovely flower—unlovely?—no— Not beautiful, 'tis true—not touched with hues Like her's we late have gazed on; but so rich In precious fragrance is that lowly one, So loved for her sweet qualities, that I Should woo her first amid a world of flowers; For she is like some few beloved ones here,Whom eyes, perchance, might slightingly pass o'er, But whose true wisdom, gentleness, and worth, Unchanging friendship, ever-faithful love, And countless minor beauties of the mind,Attach our hearts in deep affection still.
As Cupid was flying about one day, With the flowers and zephyrs in wanton play, He 'spied in the air, Floating here and there, A winged seed of the Thistle-flower, And merrily chased it from bower to bower. And young Love cried to his playmates, "See, I've found the true emblem-flower for me, For I am as light In my wavering flight As this feathery star of soft Thistle-down, Which by each of you zephyrs about is blown. See, how from a Rose's soft warm blush It flies, to be caught in a bramble bush;— And as oft do I, In my wand'rings, hie From beauty to those who have none, I trow; Reckless as Thistle-down, on I go." So the sly little God still flits away Mid earth's loveliest flow'ret's, day by day; And oh! maidens fair, Never weep, nor care When his light wings waft him beyond your power, Think—'tis only the down of the Thistle-flower!
FLOWER-FANTASIES. (LOBELIA FULGENS—CARDINAL FLOWER.)
Can ye whose eyes now rest upon my page In the bright bowers Of clustered blossoms that in gardens are,Semblance of things as radiant and fair? Ye should be "high fantastical," to feel, With perfect zest, All the fine subtle fancies, that like dreamsSoftly invest The thought and memory of each bright budThat we do cull in forest, field, or flood. Oh! there is music to the spirit's ear In every sigh Heaved by the roses bosom to the airThat winnows by; And there is poetry in every leaf,Whose blush speaks pleasure, or whose tears tell grief.
Tree-tops aloft, And mid their branches whistlingly doth blow,While it but fans the flowers that sleep below. We know they sleep; at eve the daisy small Foldeth all up Her blush-tipped rays; and the wave's empress[2] hides Her star-lit cup: And each fair flower, though some with open eye, Listens and yields to natures lullaby. The nodding Foxglove slumbers on her stalk; And fan-like ferns Seem poised still and sleepily, untilThe morn returns With singing birds and beams of rosy light,To bid them dance and frolic in delight. The drowsy Poppy, who has all the day Proudly outspread His scarlet mantle, folds it closely nowAround his head; And, lulled by soothing bairn that his own leaves distil,Sleeps, while the night dews fall upon the moonlit hill.
Bright dreams may well Be thought to visit things so pure and fair,Whose deaths no anguish have, whose lives no care. Oh! that I were a flower to slumber so! To wake at morn E'en with as lithe a spirit; and to die,As these return Unto their mother-earth, when air and skyHave caught their od'rous immortality. The fragrance is the spirit of the flower, E'en as the soul Is our ethereal portion, We can ne'er Hold or control One more than other. Passing sweet must be The visions, gentle things, that visit ye! How happily ye live in the pure light Of loveliness:— Do ye not feel how deeply—wondrously—Ye cheer and bless Our chequered sojourn on this weary earth,Whose wildest, dreariest spots to FLOWERS have given birth?
E'en in the praise Which our enraptured wonder ever tellsWhile poring o'er the wealth that in ye dwells;— That wealth of thought, of beauty, and of love. Which may be found In each small common herb that springs from outThe teeming ground? Do ye not feel that ye do deeply bless Our harsher souls by your dear loveliness?Oh! if 'tis given unto ye to know The thrilling power Of memories and thoughts that can be readE'en in a flower, How ye must all rejoice beneath each look Which reads your beauty like an open book!We love its silent language: strong, though still, Is that unheard But all-pervading harmony:—it breathesNo uttered word, But floats around us, as, in happy dream,We feel the soft sigh of a waveless stream.
Earth's jarring storms Can scare that gentle music from the heart It once hath entered: ne'er doth it depart,But dwelleth like a fount within a cave Or forest deep, Answering to each light breeze whose gentle wingDoth o'er it sweep, And making doubly bright each tender beam Of star or sun-light that doth o'er it gleam.So, love of nature's harmony can bless And gladden ever The heart and fancy, as pellucid waveOf fount or river Flings back more bright what bright doth on it fall, And its own radiance lends where else were none at all.But I, in wandering rhymes, too long have chased The shadowy things Which oft-times flit before fantastic thoughtOn fancy's wings; And though I well love dreamy themes like these,Wend we now nearer to realities.
One, in such blaze Of brilliant beauty and of gorgeous glow,That ye ne'er saw an Empress robed so. With proud disdain how she uprears her stem, Unbending, tall; As if she arrogantly, vainly said—"What are ye all Pale, paltry buds, that trail and creep around,Scarce rising from the base and sordid ground? See, how the butterflies, with gay-plumed wings On me alight— Attracted by my tow'ring, stately stem,And colours bright— None in my presence cast a thought on you— Their homage paid to me, away they go." So seemed this gaudy flower to discourse Unto the fair, Humble, and lowly buds, which all aroundDisposed were; And much her scorn on their mean rank was bent;Which scorn, howe'er, brought them no discontent.
Low, low, did stoop, And soon the cause of this I could descry;The vase, whose waters fed her pride, was dry.[3] And she, deprived of this distinctive wealth, No more might rank Among the great, or beautiful, or proud,But dimly sank, In loathsome dusk deformity, besideThe very things o'er whom her swollen pride Had been most arrogant. And when I saw Her swift decay, And marked the giddy flies on other flowersAs fondly play, As they had toyed with her so lately lost,Methought how false was all her haughty boast! How vain that pride of birth, or wealth, or state, Or fleeting power, Which blots the vaunted reason of our race, To whom this flower May read a wholesome lesson.—Are not they As soon forgot when wealth doth pass away?
Hover round them? Are they not all forgotten in the hourOf dark dishonour—like my garish flower? Oh! bid them learn that beauty, riches, state, And noble birth Are but choice accidents that do befallA few on earth— And bid them less haught and conceited be,Who have drawn prizes in this lottery.
THE LADYE, THE LOVER, AND THE CROCUS. A LEGEND OF LOVE.
The Ladye was fair as Ladye could be, Yet blushed at a suit like mine. She lent to them all a ready ear, Joined hands with them in the dance; And each deemed himself to her most dear,While cheered by her sunny glance. Her voice was gay, and her step was light Mid them, in hall and bower, But soon 'neath my gaze she shrunk, as a blightWithers the summer-flower. And then she shunned me, as the dove, When the hawk soars, shuns her fate: And I—I deemed not this was Love, That looked so much like hate.
In her averted eye.
It was her natal day. A crowd Of cringing nothings came— I call them nothings—for they showed Nought noble save a name. Aud flowers were offered—and I brought Mine from the brook's bright rim, With Autumn's Crocuses: not wroughtInto a garland trim. But they were wild, and fresh, and sweet, And innocent and fair As she whom others sought to greetWith off'rings rich and rare. Yet a rose-wreath her brow entwined, By daring suitor placed; A gay exotic was enshrinedClose by her girdled waist.
And 'twas her birth-day morn! Oh! had her angel eye the power To kill, or turn to stone, I'd better borne such glance that hourThan that averted one. And forth I wandered—and I vowed My fond wild dream was o'er;— I would but mingle in the crowdAnd gaze on her once more.
It was the evening of that day, That day when laughter glad Rang out, mid dance and mirthful play,From some—while I was sad. 'Twas evening, and the crowded hall Mocked the less dazzling day; And rainbow-like the hues that allShone in that festal ray.
Mingle in that gay crowd: For all were then so deep intent Upon their own delight, That not one curious glance was bentOn me—poor woe-eyed wight! I looked the gay ranks through; but not A sight of her could gain— I gazed and gazed—and, lest a spotEscaped, looked through again. She was not there—and then the Hall, Before so bright, seemed dim; Alas! in Lover's eye, what changeOne form doth make to him. And on I passed through gay saloons Where guests by three and two Were list'ning to the softened tonesO' the music, and some few, Methought, were whispering words which theyNo doubt, far sweeter knew.
A Ladye—only one. A wreath of roses lay flung by Her feet, upon the floor, And choicer buds, whose smell, I ween,And loveliness were o'er. She did not hear my coming step, And I might watch her take Flowers from her bosom,—happy theyWho such a home might make! She took a drooping cluster thence Not rich and rare like those Which, spurned were lying at her feet,But such as nature shows, And spreads with lavish hand O'er bank and moor and field; No cultured gardens glittering wealthThose treasured ones did yield. Oh, joy! they were the same I gave! I saw her kiss them o'er— I saw her place them whence they cameAnd I was mute no more.
No frown upon me bent. Little she spoke, but her small hand Was not withdrawn from mine, And the bright tear which I might seeUnder the eyelash shine Told not of sorrow, but deep joy; And soon a smile o'erspread Her blushing face, that chased awayThe tear-drop ere 'twas shed. Together joined we that gay throng That happy birth-day eve; Our loneliness had passed away,As ye may well believe. Such was the story told by one Who well might love to gaze Upon the lowly bud that boreSuch dreams of earlier days. But ever does that humble flower That gems the aging year, Pale Autumn's purple Crocus, seem Than other flowers more dear. I meet it on the cold bleak hill When sunshine there is none, And all the Summer darlings haveDeparted, every one. I look upon its outward form So delicate and frail; And wonder how so slight a thingMay breast the boisterous gale. But it is humble; o'er its head The blast that reuds the oak Passes all harmless, though the flowerA fairy's foot had broke. I gaze into its vaselike cup Of amethyst, where low A star of deep rich gold doth roundFling a warm yellow glow. Hid from the spendthrift breeze, the flowers Their wealth all meekly keep, Till they who know the treasure's worthThe golden harvest reap.[4]
I love their faces, when, by one And two, they're looking out:— I love them, when the spreading fieldIs purple all about. I loved them in the by-gone years Of childhood's thoughtless laughter, When I marvelled why the flowers came firstAnd the leaves the season after. I loved them then, I love them now, The gentle and the bright; I love them for the thoughts they bringOf Spring's returning light; When, first-born of the waking earth, Their kindred gay appear. And, with the Snowdrop, usher inThe hope invested year. But they are passing from us now, And round each frail, white stem The purple petals faded droop;Winter will chase e'en them.
The yellow and the white!
Some deep empurpled as the hyacine, Some, as the rubine laughing sweetly red, Some like fair emerauds, not yet well ripened: And them emongst were some of burnisht gold, Which did themselves emongst the leaves enfold, As lurking from the vew of covetous guest, That the weake boughes with so rich load opprest Did bow adowne as overburdened.
Like faithful Lovers, that full true are seen Though fickle fortune frown, and work them woe So those fair trees still wear their summer-green, When Atumn's breath hath yellowed, and laid low The vesture of the bare and shivering grove, Where Winter's bitter winds might all unhindered rove.
Why should we grieve, that to the chilly air Of our beloved, yet dim and wintery land The luxuries of other climes deny Their stately growth?—What though we may not roam 'Mid groves where orange-blossoms perfume breathe From the same branch where hangs the golden fruit; Have we not, even 'neath our bleakest sky, A tree as beautiful—whom snow, nor frost, Nor the loud-chiding, many-voiced wind May e'er affright or wither?—Know ye not The verdant Arbutus?—which ever fair The whole four seasons round, is loveliest now, When Winter's scowling brow hath driven all The frailer blossoms from the leaf-strewn earth. See, like a Ladye in a festal garb, How gaily decked she waits the Christinas time! Her robe of living emerald, that waves And, shining, rustles in the frost-bright air, Is garlanded with bunches of small flowers,— Small bell-shaped flowers, each of an orient pearl Most delicately modelled, and just tinged With faintest yellow, as if, lit within, There hung a fairy torch in each lamp-flower. Some have a pinky hue, soft as a shell Painted by Amphitrite's hands; for they, less white Than Lilies when they ope, blush e'en to know That Summer hath a flower more pure than they. Nor are her pearls the only wealth displayed By this fair Winter Queen; for, all around, Among those bead-like wreaths do gleam and glow Jewels of many hues; globes of rich gold Hanging beside the pale green chrysophrase; And those contrasted by the ruby's light, Or coral, snatched from out some sea-maid's cell; Against which amber soft and palely shines, Fast deep'ning to the hue the topaz wears. And these, with ceaseless changefulness of shade, Broider that Ladye's pearl-enwreathed robe Of vernal emerald,—When chilling storms Howl dismally around, and Winter shakes, Wide spreading to the blast, his hoary locks, Till they array the frozen earth in snow; E'en then her beauty wanes not—for she wears The white and glittering vesture like a veil Over her festal robe, and when the breeze Ruffles the silv'ry folds, coquettish peeps,Smiling and blushing, from her cold, chaste screen.
'Twas in late Autumn, that I rambled lone E'en in that beaten track:—beauties to me, Though hundreds daily passed along, to whom The things I gloried in were all unknown, Unseen—unloved; and, doubtless, I must seem A strange, odd, uncouth being unto them— Because I sought delightful lore in books Whose language they knew not; while foreign tongues, And fashion's erudition, they would strive, Ambitious, to acquire. Had they e'er readOne page of Nature, with the love devout Which some are blessed withal, they would not think That mind distraught, which could delight itself In contemplation of the smallest weed, Pebble—leaf—insect—which the lap of earthHolds in exhaustless wealth. Envy they might In their small spirits suffer to arise, Could they conceive the pleasures, high, refined,Derivable from things so plenteous,— Pleasures not bought with gold—nor giving toilNor pain to living creature.
(In artist-phrase) to tell the azures depth, And sailed along so silently and soft, That I did long to be a cloud myself, Soaring beside them:—and the Sun's warm rays Fell kindly on the earth, whose fading garb, Though torn by recent storms that had nigh strippedThe woodlands of their leavy wealth, looked gay. I wandered on—along the beaten path, Musing most happily;—and often paused Beside the ragged hedgerow, picking out From the rough tangled mass, despite the thorns (Which, sooth to say, defended their charge well), Bunches of wild red berries, faded leaves,— And straggling nettle-tops. Sometimes a stick, O'er which the pale-green Lichen mantling, wrought A forest-scene in miniature. Now, a long, Far-creeping, many-angled stalk of that fair plant, Fair-seeming, yet oft treach'rous, wooddy nightshade:— The few keen frosts had nipped its verdant leaves, And most of them had fallen; some remained, But they were yellow, and the footstalks small So brittle, that they dropped off at a touch; But the bright luscious-looking berries hung In bunches of rich crimson, juicy, ripe, And tempting e'en to those who know their bale, Much more to childish lips!—yet those might find A better treat upon a neighb'ring spray, That long, arched, prickly streamer, which bent o'er, Down from the hedge's top, its garland rough,Bearing the loved Black-berries—though these now Were "few and far between," and tasteless, too: Yet frost, which steals the sweetness from the fruit, Gives to the leaf strange beauty—tinting it With every various hue, from healthy green To sickliest yellow—and from that again Through every soft and brilliant shade that 'longs To flaming scarlet—richer crimson—brown, In all its myriad grades—purple—and that Dappled again with black. Oh! I have culled An hundred of these painted leaves, and gazed, And, wondering, looked again upon them all, Yet ne'er found one whose form of shade or hue Resembled any other—all unlike; And then the under surfaces of each Are white, and smooth, and downy, as if wind, And frost, and rain, did never come to them.All o'er the hedge—as if some wealthy nymph From Neptune's ocean-palace had flung forth A shower of coral—gleam the polished hyps, In many a smiling cluster, and we read An ever-welcome message in their smile:— It tells us that where they on naked stems, Leafless and winter-worn, do greet us now, Summer again will spread her lavish bloom,And, 'neath the blue sky, bid the roses blush.
All these were happy meetings unto me— The leaves, weeds, berries with their lively tints, Pale flowers, and pleasant musings. But ere long A dearer and more joyous form than all Came hopping friskily about. 'Twas he, The wintry warbler—poor Robin Red-breast, As blithe and brisk, and merry as his wont, Singing and chirrupping, as by my side In kind companionship he skipped along, Or flew from tree to tree. And as he sung, Me thought his gay notes shaped themselves to sense— Language like ours; and thus my fancy framed,From his sweet music, unmelodious words. Farewell to Autumn! She's passing away, Silently, swiftly going— She is shaking the last brown leaves from the spray, And they fall on the earth, where the Sun's slant rayFinds only damp moss growing. Autumn is parting; mute and fast Her few faint flowers are dying; The noon of the year is gone and past, And every moaning and muttering blastThe Summer's dirge is crying.
'Mid winds all loudly chiding. Still, ever be merry, as I am now, Thorough the wintry weather; For ye have the bright hearth's cheering glow, While for me the ruddy hedge-berries grow,So let us be gay together! Oh! ever be merry!—what do ye gain By murmuring, fretting, sighing?— Why ever strive to discover pain? Why court the things of which ye complain?Why on life's dark side be prying? Cease—cease, and be merry;—Oh come to me, E'en a bird shall teach ye reason— Shall show ye how gaily and happily Poor Robin can sing in a leafless tree,And love e'en the dreariest season. Then ever be merry—a lesson take now, That well ye may aye remember; Like sunshine in dim November.
AUTUMN SCENES AND FLOWERS.
"The flowering Spring, the Summer's ardent strength, each in its turn calls forth our loving praise. To Spring and Summer we have already paid all the brief tribute which the limits of these pages allow:—and brown Autumn must now succeed her more brilliant, but not more beautiful sisters. Thomson's opening lines in this season, are too finely descriptive to be forgotten here:—
Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn, nodding o'er the yellow plain, Comes jovial on, the Doric reed once more, Well pleased, I tune. Whate'er the Wintery frost Nitrous prepared; the various-blossomed Spring Put in white promise forth; and Summer suns Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view, Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme— •••••• From Heav'n's high cope the fierce effulgence shook Of parting Summer, a serener blue, With golden light enliven'd, wide invests The happy world. Attemper'd suns arise, Sweet-beamed, and shedding oft through lucid clouds A pleasing calm; while broad and brown below, Extensive harvests hang the heavy head. Rich, silent, deep they stand, for not a gale Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain: A calm of plenty! till the ruffled air Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow. Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky; The clouds fly different; and the sudden Sun, By fits effulgent, gilds th' illumined field, And black by fits the shadows sweep along. A gaily-chequer'd, heart-expanding view, Far as the circling eye can shoot around Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn.
Herrick's "Hock-cart, or Harvest-home," well describes such scenes, though he seems to allude to ceremonies not now in use at that festive time—
Come, sons of Summer, by whose toile We are the lords of wine and oile; By whose tough labours and rough hands, We rip up first, then reap our lands. Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come, And, to the pipe, sing Harvest-home. Come forth, my lord, and see the cart Drest up with all the country art. See here a maukin, there a sheet, As spotlesse pure as it is sweete; The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, Clad all in linen white as lillies. The harvest swains and wenches bound For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd. About the cart heare how the rout Of rural younglings raise the shout, Pressing before, some coming after, Those with a shout, and these with laughter. Some blesse the cart, some kisse the sheaves, Some pranke them up with oaken leaves: Some cross the fill horse, some with greatDevotion stroak the home-borne wheat.
All evergreens are now strikingly beautiful by contrast; for while most of the leavy trees, such as the Oak, Elm, Beech, Sycamore, Chestnut, &c., are decked out in red, yellow, purple, and orange, the majestic Cedar looks grandly around,—the stoic of the forest—disdaining to suffer the Summer's drought or the Autumn breeze to scatter his dark attire, or even discompose his stately demeanour. The Fir waves his blackening crest against the sunset clouds, as if conscious how greatly he adds to the pictorial beauty of the landscape; and, indeed, few trees can do so much towards making a picture. Its tall trunk, springing so high without foliage, hides none of the earthward view while the deep mass of its shadowy crest often "comes in" most happily to break the uniformity of the sky-tint. The Yew's sombre, darksome branches seem always to have been deemed emblematical of death and mourning. Herrick thus plaintively addresses the Yew and Cypresse.
Both you two have
A funerale stone Which being seen Blest with perpetual greene,May grow to be Not so much call'd a tree,As the eternal monument of me.
The Ivy, that staunchest and firmest friend, That hastens its succouring arm to lend To the ruined fane, where in youth it sprung And its pliant tendrils in sport were flung. When the sinking buttress and mouldering tower Seem only the spectres of former power, Then the Ivy clusters around the wall, And for tapestry hangs in the moss-grown hall, Striving in beauty and youth to dress The desolate place in its loneliness;— In all seasons the Ivy is green and bright, Bring garlands of Joy for Christmas night!
On the glorious hills of our Mountain-land, Wales, I have gathered myriads of minute and exquisite Autumn flowers, among which the sweet wild Thyme is eminently beautiful. How often have I exclaimed in the language of Shakspeare—"I know a bank whereon the wild Thyme grows," where it covers the dark rock with large soft beds of its delicious purple clusters, "lulled in whose bowers" the Fairy Queen might well repose, while its aromatic perfume would greet her with delicate incense. In the garden we have many gay and popular favourites. The giant Sunflower, so contradictorily alluded to by Poets, sometimes as a parasite, sometimes as a constant lover, turns to the deity-king of heaven its yellow ray-like petals and broad brown disk, where the busy bees are ever creeping about and humming, as they draw the sweets from its multitude of florets. The splendid and infinitely various Dahlia raises its luxuriant form, crowned with modelled flowers of every imaginable shade of colour. The double Dahlias have, in my opinion, too entirely superseded their single ancestors, whose deep-gold, powdery centres were so very beautiful. I cannot partake the great admiration bestowed by fancy-florists upon all double monstrocities. Double flowers are showy, and all very well as varieties; but when the original is single, it should never be so entirely lost sight of, as is now generally the case. I always marvel how any one can prefer seeing the cup-like corolla of the Snowdrop or Daffodil, crammed with a multitude of petals crushed and squeezed out of all form and beauty, with the central arrangement of the flower, the stamens, anther, &c., wholly hidden from sight.[5] The elegant, veined flowers of the Hibiscus are among our Autumn darlings; and the China-asters look cheerfully out from their many-leaved calyces. The Sweet Peas still adorn the trellis with their winged blossoms, and the gay Golden-rod bears aloft its rich yellow crown. The pink and lilac Michaelmas Daisies, though favourite guests, are sad ones, from the presage they bring of the departure of all their fair companion-flowers. But a mere enumeration of these garden inmates, has little interest—we will proceed to look more closely at the subject of the Autumn illustrations.
"The year growing ancient— Nor yet on Summer's death, nor on the birth Of trembling Winter, the fairest flowers o' the season Are our Carnations."—
Spenser and Ben Jonson generally mention the Carnations by the fanciful name, popular in their day, of "Sops in wine," it being customary to put the flowers into wine by way of improving its flavour by their spicy properties. In Colin's song, in Spenser's "Shepheard's Calendar," they are thus grouped among a variety of other flowers—
Bring hether the pincke and purple cullambine Worn of Paramoures: Strowe me the grounds with daffadowndillies, And cowslips, and kingcups, and loved lillies: The pretie pannce And the chevisaunce Shall match with the fayre flowerdelice.
Stay while ye will, or goe, The place where I may find ye. Within my Lucia's cheeke, Whose livery ye weare, Play ye at hide or seeke,I'm sure to find ye there.
So smell those odours that do rise From out the wealthy spiceries; So smells the flower of blooming Clove Or roses smother'd in the stove; So smells the air of spiced wine Or essences of Jessamine.
Among the mirtles as I walk't, Love and my sighs thus intertalk't; Tell me, said I, in deep distresse, Where I may find my Shepheardesse. Thou foole, said Love, know'st thou not this? In every thing that's sweet she is. In yond' Carnation goe and seek, There thou shalt find her lip and cheeke, In that ennamell'd pansie by, There thou shalt have her curious eye; In bloom of peech, and rose's bud, There waves the streamer of her blood. 'Tis true, said I, and thereupon I went to pluck them one by one, To make of parts an union, But on a sudden all were gone, At which I stopt; said Love, these be The true resemblances of thee; For as these flowers, thy joyes must die, And in the turning of an eye; And all thy hopes of her must witherLike those short sweets ere knit together.
Have ye ever heard, in the twilight dim, When the sun's last glances are glimmering? Have ye heard that music with cadence sweet, And merry peal, Ring out like the echoes of fairy-feetO'er flowers that steal? And did ye deem that each trembling tone Was the distant vesper-chime alone? The source of that whispering strain I'll tell,For I've listened oft To the music faint of the Blue Harebell,In the gloaming soft. 'Tis the gay fairy-folk that peal who ringAt even-time for their banquetting. And gaily the trembling bells peal out With gentle tongue, While elves and fairies career about'Mid dance and song. Oh! roses and lilies are fair to see,But the wild Blue Bell is the flower for me!
Where is the Garden-guest that may outshine the stately, tall, magnificent Foxglove? This is as remarkable for its majestic, lofty demeanour, as the light, lithe Harebell for its modest playfulness. The tall spiral stem, springing up from the group of broad leaves, and thickly hung with the beautiful purple blossoms, gradually lessening in size from the large open bells on the lower portion of the stalk, to the little buds on the summit, still wrapped up in their close green calices, is an object so strikingly beautiful, that I should think any person who had once given it an attentive observance must inevitably be a lover of flowers to the end of his days. I know many of my readers will say I am an enthusiast in my affection for them; but I ought to add that my enthusiasm is the result of love and admiration, little aided by scientific knowledge as yet; though I gladly anticipate the time when a better acquaintance with the fascinating study of Botany will unfold to me many myriad beauties now unobserved, even in the fair forms of my most familiar favourites. The extreme beauty of each bell of the Foxglove will well repay a minute examination: even a cursory glance tells us how gracefully swelling is its outline, and how rich its colour; but look within, where the variously-shaped markings of deep marone, like the spots on a leopard's skin, are edged with a lighter bordering than the ground-colour of the corolla, shewing the pattern more distinctly. Then, attached to the upper side of the bells, and so hidden from us, as they hang round the stem and look modestly down, are the long white filaments, with their fine yellow anthers, so placed as to be in no danger of receiving injury from rain, to avoid which many flowers are endowed with the power of closing the corolla, such as the Daisy, Pimpernel, Marygold, &c., and thereby preserving their various minute organs of fructification unhurt; but the arrangement of the Foxglove's stamens renders this beautiful precaution needless; they lie safely nestling beneath their rich purple dome-like canopy, curtained from wind and storm. There is something very curious, too, in the manner the mouths of the Foxglove bells are pursed up before expanding;—they look as if compelled to keep a secret against their own inclination, and ready to burst to divulge it; yet, full of swelling importance and sedate wisdom, merely nod their clever heads, with a look of "I could an' I would;" and then some sun-shiny day, the lips that have been growing brighter and brighter, and pouting with yet more consequential expression, are unsealed, and the bells gossip of their honey secrets to every wandering wind.
In the neighbourhood of a friend's house at which I was visiting, in Bedfordshire, was (and I hope still is) a grand oak wood. The trees, of unusual height in England, were remarkably erect and pillar-like, as if grown "to be the masts of some great ammirals." They sprung into the air, seeming to support the very clouds; and with their dense mass of foliage spread like a roof above, and stately trunks, like columns standing round, with here and there a distant avenue offering a peep of sunlit meadow scenery, the place might well appear a glorious temple framed by Nature's hand. Beneath waved an ocean of Fern, so high, that when walking on the ground we had a verdant wall, or rather arcade, on each side, reaching far above the head of an ordinary-sized person. But in some places trees had recently been felled, and by climbing upon their prostrate trunks and branches, and looking over the Fern, we gained a scene of surpassing beauty. The wind, rustling in the lofty trees above, seemed to glide lightly over the fan-leaves of the Fern, among which the deer were sportively bounding about, tossing their antlered heads, and chasing each other through the wavy sea of verdure. Squirrels were scampering about the trees, whisking their bushy tails, and playing a thousand merry antics; while the more timid rabbits peeped from their burrows among the Fern roots, with their long sleek ears attentively bent to catch the least suspicious sound, which would send them springing home again. Nor were birds wanting to complete the picture; the "deep mellow crush of the wood-pigeon's note" was heard in the trees, besides other more shrill voices. Altogether, the spot, season, and incidents were so beautiful, that I should cherish the Fern, were it only for its bringing me the memory of feelings so delicious as those I then enjoyed. Before the curious fructification of the Fern was understood, many superstitious fancies were afloat respecting it; one of which was, that the possession of Fern seed, gathered under peculiar circumstances of time, place, incantation, &c., rendered the wearer invisible—
"We have the receipt of fern-seed—we walk invisible."
The Fern I have drawn, and hitherto alluded to, is a very common kind; but many of our native Ferns are very diminutive, rare, and flourish only in peculiar situations. The singular one called Maiden-hair, may often be found on ruins; and old stone walls are frequently very productive of other small kinds. The curiously coiled up ball in which the Fern first springs from the ground, and its gradual growth and expansion, are among some of Natures most interesting phenomena. I well remember the extreme delight with which I first examined one of the rough brown knobs, when told that it contained the graceful leaves of the plant I loved so much.
Shelley alludes to it in these few sweet lines "To E. V."—
Madonna, wherefore hast thou sent to me Alas, and they are wet! Is it with thy kisses or thy tears?For never rain or dew Such fragrance drew From plant or flower—the very doubt endears My sadness ever new, The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed for thee.
External loveliness may well be imaged by the gay and brilliant flowers with which the modest Mignionette is grouped in the illustration. The Major Convolvulus is one of the most elegant of our common annuals; but it is devoid of fragrance, and is of very short duration. A summer's day finds it withered ere noon; and each morning decks it with new blossoms, to bask a few brief hours in the sunshine, then shrivel, fall, and pass away. But it would ill become me to disparage the beauty of this fair and favourite flower; the great profusion and luxuriance of its blossoms amply compensating for their short-lived beauty; and when many stems are intertwined, the variety of colour is extremely gay and ornamental. My own fond love for Wild Flowers is by this time so well known by my readers, that they will not marvel when I mention the common White Bind-weed as being, in my estimation, the most beautiful of all the Convolvuli. It is so very graceful—so lavish of both bloom and foliage—so elegant, yet so wild and free. Frequently its fine large leaves hang in a curtain or drapery of verdure over the ragged hedgerow, or spring in festoons from tree to tree, with myriads of the purely white tent-shaped bells lying on the foliage in wreaths of the most graceful and fanciful forms. The leaves are far more beautiful in shape than the cultivated ones, being arrowy instead of round; and the calyx is also more ornamental. Like most wild flowers, when gathered, they quickly fade, though when immediately placed in water, I have had yards of the chaplet tendrils last several days in great freshness and beauty.
As an emblem-flower of bonny Scotland, too, the Thistle has acquired no small degree of notoriety. And over many a kindly missive of gentle and loving words do seals keep guard, bearing the impression of a Thistle, and the posy, "Dinna Forget." For my own part, I think a finely grown tall Thistle-plant, with its chevaux-de-frise'd leaves, and bright purple flowers, swelling out from the bristling calyx, like a full petticoat from under a green boddice, a very handsome and ornamental addition either in field or garden (I am no farmer); and the evident relish with which I have seen poor hedge-feeding donkies crunching its rough stalks and leaves, is to me a very conclusive argument in favour of the persecuted Thistle-tribe; which seems to occupy a similar position in the race of flowers to that held by the Gypsies in our own. The illustrative drawing represents the Holy Thistle (Carduus Benedictus), which is more remarkable for the beauty of its variegated leaf, than its blossom. In Shakspeare's "Much Ado about Nothing," the following mention is made of the plant, by way of quizzery to Beatrice, on her suspected regard for Benedict.
This delicate flower is now generally distributed over England, though in many parts it flourishes in far greater luxuriance than in others. In some districts of Herefordshire and Shropshire (as I am informed by a friend, whose Autumn rambles led him among much of the picturesque scenery of both counties), this Crocus grows in such profusion, as to clothe the fields and hills in one beautiful robe of amethyst. Nor is it to be disregarded, even when flowering less abundantly, for in our meadows and gardens a few groups of its delicate bells form at this season a precious treasure. The economy of the Autumn Crocus is extremely curious. The flowers appearing so late in the year, when the seeds could not be ripened by exposure to the sun and air, an entirely different organization is adopted by nature for the propagation of the plant; the fructification takes place under ground, and the following Spring the seed vessels rise to the surface accompanied by leaves, which do not appear with the flower in Autumn. Spenser weaves in the Saffron Crocus very gracefully, in the following group of flowers in his translation of "Virgil's Gnat:"—
And round about he taught sweet floures to growe; The Rose engrained in pure scarlet die; The Lilly fresh; and Violet belowe; The Marigold; and cheerful Rosemarie; The Spartan Mirtle, whence sweete gumb does flowe; The purple Hyacinthe, and fresh Costmarie; And Saffron, sought for in Cicilian soyle; And Lawrell th' ornament of Phœbus' toyle. Fresh Rhododaphne; and the Sabine flower, Matching the wealth of th' ancient Frankincence; And pallied Yvie, building his own boure; And Box, yet mindful of his olde offence; Red Amaranthus, lucklesse Paramoure; Oxeye still greene, and bitter Patience, Ne wants there pale Narcisse, that, in a wellSeeing his beauty, in love with it fell.
The spray, from which my illustration was made, ripened its many-tinted berries under the shelter of Warwick Castle, where the Arbutus trees, in the great court, are truly magnificent.
The hedge-rows at this season are very beautiful, adorned with the bright polished coral of the Dog-rose Hips, the deep, rich bloom of the Haws, and here and there, in the most graceful festoons, hang the not quite leafless sprays of the Wooddy Nightshade, with its treacherous berries looking lusciously crimson and juicy. The illustrative poem being "a fact, literally rendered," I need give no prose description of the same scene. The Blackberries, Haws, Hips, and the clustered Nightshade berries are represented in the plate.
The wrathful Winter prochynge on a pace, With blust'ring blastes had al ybared the treen, An old Saturnus with his frosty face With chilling colde had pearst the tender green: The mantles rent wherein enwrapped been The gladsom groves that nowe longe overthrowen, The tapets torn, and every blome down blowen. The soyle that earat so semely was to seen, Was all despoyled of her beauties hewe: And soote freshe flowers (wherewith the summer's queen Had clad the earth) now Boreas blastes downe blewe, And small fowles flocking in their song did rewe The winter's wrath, wherewith eche thing defaste In woful wise bewayled the summer past. Hawthorne had lost his motley lyverye, The naked twigges were shivering all for colde; And dropping down the teares abundantly; Eche thing (me thought), with weping eye me tolde The cruell season, bidding me with-holde My selfe within, for I was gotten out Into the feldes, wheras I walkte about.
Scowling Winter looked grimly out Of the merry breeze waved they all. Too gay and bright Seemed their garb to him, Whose array is chill, and dark, and dim— It irked his sight, And he longed to hold His stern, harsh, cold Dominion o'er all the shivering land, And grasp it tight in his frosty hand. He threw o'er the earth a wrathful look; The Sun grew pale, and the strong trees shook, At the icy glance of his withering eye; And then his loud voice came rushing by, Calling to Autumn; he bade her fling Prone to the earth each verdant thing That bloomed in the path of the cold Ice-king. "Thy reign is o'er"—he sternly cried, "Passing away are thy power and pride, Thy golden throne Is carried away from the bare hill-side;Thy flowers all flown From field, wood, moorland, garden, and lea, Then yield up thy desolate realm to me.Yet, ere thou go Shake the last brown leaves from the forest tree,And lay them low; Lay them low, as a carpet spreadOn the mossy ground— Strew them around, Beneath my feet—not o'er my head; "For I shall bring Curtains all wove of the silvery snow, And drop them around—above—below,While not a thing That thou hast cherished its face shall show.Fling away all Thy fluttering leaves and faded flowers;Too slight—too small Their forms would seem in my lofty bowers; For wreaths and garlands are sculptured there Like marble, yet whiter than ever were The chisel's triumphs—and all so light, Like down, or gossamer streamers slight, That a breeze can shake the branches bare.
Roaming about And tricking out Each familiar scene like a Fairy Land; Hanging pendants of icicles clear From roof, shed, window—there and here, In many a crystal and diamond spear; And flinging pearls with a lavish hand O'er hedge, field, fence, bush, grove, and tree, All set in a silvery filagree. And my feats are ever so silently done They're all unguessed, till the morning sun Ruddy and round, 'mid vapours tost Looks on a kingdom of white hoar-frost. These are my sports—and oft I fling A glassy floor from rim to rim Of the lake that shines i' the valley low; And then—how merrily, swiftly go The skaiters along!—They dart—they skim— Or circle in many a mazy ring; Oh! these are the sports of the cold Ice-king.And what hast thou to show, In thy russet bower and leavy pall,Can match with my boundless and glittering Hall?"
The strong winds his coursers are; He travels along—and their roar so loudBefore him rolls afar— He comes—and the leafless woods bend down Before the King of the Icy crown. He comes in terror, and wrath, and dread; Around him the storm and the blast outspread Their awful wings—and the darken'd sky Frowns on the earth most gloomily—Oh! the Ice-king's reign is dreary! But though dreary without—'tis glad within, For now the Christmas sports begin, With merry meetings of kith and kin,And hearts so light and cheery— The wintry eves we will e'en prolong With the bounding dance, and the festive song,And the ancient goblin-story: The great yule-log on the hearth shall blaze, And old gossips chat of their by-gone days,And England's Christmas glory; The Holly's bright leaves and berries red In wreaths o'er the picture-frames bespread,And the Misletoe-bough above them, For maidens who covet, yet seem to dread,A kiss from the lips who love them. Farewell to the year!—the fair young Spring In Summer's glow did vanish; Autumn fled from the stern Ice-king,Whom Spring again will banish.
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Every tree was hung with icicles that the sun turned into a blaze of brilliant light.
Pos Terkait
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