  SYREN of sullen moods and fading hues, Yet haply not incapable of joy, Sweet Autumn! I thee hail With welcome all unfeigned; And oft as morning from her lattice peeps To beckon up the sun, I seek with thee To drink the dewy breath Of fields left fragrant then, In solitudes, where no frequented paths But what thy own foot makes betray thine home, Stealing obtrusive there To meditate thy end: By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks, With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge, Which woo the winds to play, And with them dance for joy; And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods, Where water-lilies spread their oily leaves, On which, as wont, the fly Oft battens in the sun; Where leans the mossy willow half way o’er, On which the shepherd crawls astride to throw His angle, clear of weeds That crowd the water’s brim; Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward, Where, step by step, the patient lonely boy Hath cut rude flights of stairs To climb their steepy sides; Then track along their feet, grown hoarse with noise, The crawling brook, that ekes its weary speed, And struggles through the weeds With faint and sullen brawl.— These haunts I long have favoured, more as now With thee thus wandering, moralizing on; Stealing glad thoughts from grief, And happy, though I sigh. Sweet Vision, with the wild dishevelled hair, And raiment shadowy of each wind’s embrace, Fain would I win thine harp To one accordant theme. Now not inaptly craved, communing thus, Beneath the curdled arms of this stunt oak, While pillowed on the grass, We fondly ruminate O’er the disordered scenes of woods and fields, Ploughed lands, thin travelled with half-hungry sheep, Pastures tracked deep with cows, Where small birds seek for seed: Marking the cow-boy that so merry trills His frequent, unpremeditated song, Wooing the winds to pause, Till echo brawls again; As on with plashy step, and clouted shoon, He roves, half indolent and self-employed, To rob the little birds Of hips and pendant haws, And sloes, dim covered as with dewy veils, And rambling bramble-berries, pulpy and sweet, Arching their prickly trails Half o’er the narrow lane: Noting the hedger front with stubborn face The dank bleak wind, that whistles thinly by His leathern garb, thorn proof, And cheek red hot with toil; While o’er the pleachy lands of mellow brown, The mower’s stubbling scythe clogs to his foot The ever ekeing whisp, With sharp and sudden jerk, Till into formal rows the russet shocks Crowd the blank field to thatch time-weather’d barns, And hovels rude repair, Stript by disturbing winds. See! from the rustling scythe the haunted hare Scampers circuitous, with startled ears Prickt up, then squat, as by She brushes to the woods, Where reeded grass, breast-high and undisturbed, Forms pleasant clumps, through which the soothing winds Soften her rigid fears, And lull to calm repose. Wild Sorceress! me thy restless mood delights, More than the stir of summer’s crowded scenes, Where, jostled in the din, Joy palled my ear with song; Heart-sickening for the silence, that is here Not broken inharmoniously, as now That lone and vagrant bee Booms faint with weary chime. Now filtering winds thin winnow through the woods In tremulous noise, that bids, at every breath, Some sickly cankered leaf Let go its hold, and die. And now the bickering storm, with sudden start, In flirting fits of anger carps aloud, Thee urging to thine end, Sore wept by troubled skies. And yet, sublime in grief! thy thoughts delight To show me visions of most gorgeous dyes, Haply forgetting now They but prepare thy shroud; Thy pencil dashing its excess of shades, Improvident of waste, till every bough Burns with thy mellow touch Disorderly divine. Soon must I view thee as a pleasant dream Droop faintly, and so reckon for thine end, As sad the winds sink low In dirges for their queen; While in the moment of their weary pause, To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark Starts from his shielding clod, Snatching sweet scraps of song. Thy life is waning now, and Silence tries To mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds, As stooping low she bends, Forming with leaves thy grave; To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods, Till parched-lipped Summer pines in drought away Then from thine ivy’d trance Awake to glories |
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