Life in the Autumn Woods

Summer has gone,
And fruitful autumn has advanced so far
That there is warmth, not heat, in the broad sun,
And you may look, with naked eye, upon
The ardours of his car;
The stealthy frosts, whom his spent looks embolden,
Are making the green leaves golden.
What a brave splendour
Is In the October air! How rich, and clear,
And bracing, and all-joyous! we must render
Love to the spring-time, with its sproutings tender,
As to a child quite dear;
But autumn is a thing of perfect glory,
A manhood not yet hoary.
I love the woods,
In this good season of the liberal year;
I love to seek their leafy solitudes,
And give myself to melancholy moods,
With no intruder near,
And find strange lessons, as I sit and ponder,
In every natural wonder.
But not alone,
As Shakspeare's melancholy courtier loved Ardennes,
Love I the browning forest; and I own
I would not oft have mused, as he, but flown
To hunt with Amiens —
And little thought, as up the bold deer bounded,
Of the sad creature wounded.
A brave and good,
But world-worn knight — soul wearied with his part
In this vext life — gave man for solitude,
And built a lodge, and lived in Wantley wood,
To hear the belling-f- Hart.
It was a gentle taste, but its sweet sadness
Yields to the Hunter's madness.
What passionate
And keen delight is in the proud swift chase!
Go out what time the lark at heaven's red gate
Soars joyously singing — quite infuriate
With the high pride of his place;
What time the unrisen sun arrays the morning
In its first bright adorning.
Hark! the quick horn —
As sweet to hear as any clarion —
Piercing with silver, call the ear of mom;
And mark the steeds, stout Curtal and Topthorne
And Greysteil and the Don —
Each one of them his fiery mood displaying
With pawing and with neighing.
Urge your swift horse,
After the crying hounds in this fresh hour,
Vanquish high hills — stem perilous streams perforce,
On the free plain give free wings to your course,
And you will know the power
Of the brave chase — and how of griefs the sorest
A cure is in the forest.
Or stalk the deer;
The same red lip of dawn has kiss'd the hills,
The gladdest sounds are crowding on your ear,
There is a life in all the atmosphere: —
Your very nature fills
With the fresh hour, as up the hills aspiring
You climb with limbs untiring.
It is a fair
And goodly sight to see the antler'd stag,
With the long sweep of his swift walk repair
To join his brothers; or the plethoric Bear
Lying on some high crag,
With pinky eyes half closed, but broad head shaking,
As gad-flies keep him waking.
And these you see,
And seeing them, you travel to their death
With a slow stealthy step, from tree to tree,
Noting the wind however faint it be.
The hunter draws a breath
In times like these, which, he will say, repays him
For all care that waylays him.
A strong joy fills
(A joy beyond the tongue's expressive power)
My heart in autumn weather — fills and thrills!
And I would rather stalk the breezy hills,
Descending to my bower
Nightly, by the sweet spirit of Peace attended,
Than pine where life is splendid.