[OCTOBER.]
BY H. W. ROCKWELL.
'The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrub the jay,
And from the wood-top calls the crow, through all the gloomy day.'
Bryant.
I.
Where is the summer-light?—alas!
It shines upon the land no more;
No leaf-shade spots the withered grass,
No fountain sings upon the shore;
Gone are the days of golden June,
Gone her sweet dews at night-fall cool,
And the young leaves that knew her moon,
Float sere and reddened in the pool.
II.
No spice-fed airs are here, to stir
The flowers which they so lately fanned,
No murmur but the wind-smote fir,
Or ground-birds chirping on the sand;
Too meekly brief was summer's light,
Too fleetly sweet the tints she wore,
Yet they are gone, and dusky night,
And autumn, sadden hill and shore!