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Then forth to the golden-crowned corn-field pass on,
Where the sickle is merrily plied,
And, flashing out brightly beneath the warm sun,
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 form
Now 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 retain
Of their Spring-time the whole Winter through.
And the sturdy Scots Fir lifts its dark-crested head
Unchanged o'er the path where the brown leaves are spread.
