Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/October

October.

The year is now declining; and the air—When morning blushes on the orient hills—Embued with icy chillness. Ocean's waveHas lost the tepid glow, and slumbering fogsOn clouded days brood o'er its level plain;Yet, when the day is at meridian height,The sun athwart the fading landscape smilesWith most paternal kindness, softly sweet,And delicately beautiful—a princeBlessing the realms whoso glory comes from him. The foliage of the forest, brown and sere;Drops on the margin of the stubble field,In which the partridge lingers insecure,And raises oft, at sombre eventide,With plaintive throat, her dull and tremulous cry!The sickle of the husbandman hath ceased,And left the lap of Nature shorn and bare;The odorous clover flowers have disappeared;The yellow pendulous grain is seen no more;The perfume of the bean-field has decayed;And roams the wandering bee o'er many a path,For blossoms which have perished. Grassy blades,Transparent, taper, and of sickly growth,Shoot, soon to wither, in the sterile fields.The garden fruits have mellowed with the year,And, save the lingering apricot, remainsNor trace nor token of the summer's wealth!Yet, on the wild-brier stands the yellow hip;And, from the branches of the mountain-ash, The clustering berries drop their crimson beadsDescending. On the dark laburnum's sides,Mix pods of lighter green among the leaves,Taper, and springless, hastening to decay:And on the wintry honeysuckle's stalkThe succulent berries hang. The robin sitsUpon a mossy gateway, singing clearA requiem to the glory of the woods.And, when the breeze awakes, a frequent showerOf withered leaves bestrews the weedy paths,Or from the branches of the willow whirl,With rustling sound, upon the turbid stream.