AUTUMN.
And has the year then circled round?
Is golden autumn come again?
Is that the rustling, billing sound
Of falling leaves and fitful rain?
Is that the autumn moon so bright,
The matchless Kohinoor of sky?
Is that the glorious gem of light,
Which poets sing in raptures high?
The river runs with swelling tide,
To meet her mighty love—the sea;
Like an impatient, love-sick bride,
Old Ocean, how she runs to thee!
The birds their annual plumes have shed,
And put on glories rich and new,
Glad of the feast about them spread
Of fruit and grain of tempting hue.
The lotus bright,—the water-queen,
Majestic lifts her glorious face,
While round and round the Bhromore's seen
In humming flights t'admire her grace.
Their best of green the meadows wear,
And earth with richest bloom is gay;
And nature looks so bright and fair
As if it were her bridal day.
See how, beneath the spreading shade,
Yon merry prattlers play around;
Like flow'rets dropt from boughs o'erhead
They seem, or (illegible text) Champacs sprung from ground!
