So my spirit often acheth
For the melodies it lacketh
'Neath thy sway, or cannot hear
For its mortal-cloakèd ear.
And full thirstily it longeth
For the beauty that belongeth
To the Autumn's ripe fulfilling;—
Heapèd orchard-baskets spilling
'Neath the laughter-shaken trees;
Fields of buckwheat full of bees,
Girt with ancient groves of fir
Shod with berried juniper;
Beech-nuts mid their russet leaves;
Heavy-headed nodding sheaves;
Clumps of luscious blackberries;
Purple-cluster'd traceries
Of the cottage climbing-vines;
Scarlet-fruited eglantines;
Maple forests all aflame
When thy sharp-tongued legates came.
Ruler with an iron hand
O'er an intermediate land!
Glad am I thy realm is border'd
By the plains more richly order'd,—
Stock'd with sweeter-glowing forms,—
Where the prison'd brightness warms
In lush crimsons through the leaves,
And a gorgeous legend weaves.
[CIX]. ABIGAIL BECKER.
(Off Long Point Island, Lake Erie, November 24th, 1854.)
Amanda T. Jones.
The wind, the wind where Erie plunged,
Blew, blew nor'-east from land to land;
The wandering schooner dipp'd and lunged,—
Long Point was close at hand.
Long Point—a swampy island-slant,
Where, busy in their grassy homes,
Woodcock and snipe the hollows haunt,
And musk-rats build their domes;
Where gulls and eagles rest at need,
Where either side, by lake or sound,
Kingfishers, cranes, and divers feed,
And mallard ducks abound.