For the rich scene about it is allied
To legends of his race;
And mournful traces of his day of power
Make classic grove, and glade, and river-side.
Frost, washing rain-drops, and the plough lay bare
The rude graves of his sires on hill and plain,
Exposing their white secrets to the air,
And the rough foot-fall of the whistling swain;
When Autumn robes the forest in a dress
Of many colors, he returns no more,