  Is it not our bounden duty Harsh and bitter thoughts to quell, Wild, ambitions schemes repel, And to revel in the beauty Of this Indian summer spell, Bathing forest, field, and dell As with radiance immortelle? None can paint like nature dying; Whose dissolving struggle lent Wealth of hues so richly blent That, through weary years of trying, Artist skill pre-eminent May not copy or invent Such divine embellishment. Knights of old from castles riding Scattered largesse as they went Which, like manna heaven-sent, Cheered the poverty-abiding; But, when 'neath "that low green tent" Passed the hand benevolent, Sad were they and indigent. Monarchs, too, have thus delighted Giving unto courtiers free, Costly robes and tinselry; Them to sumptuous halls of glee, Banqueting and minstrelsy, Bacchus holding sovereignty. Then, perchance, in mood capricious Stripped and scorned and turned away Those who tasted for a day Pleasure sweet and food delicious; Nor might any say them nay— Lest his head the forfeit pay Who a king dared disobey. But our own benignant Giver, Almoner impartial, true, Constantly doth gifts renew; Nor would fitfully deliver Aught unto the chosen few, But to all the wide world through, Who admire his wonders, too. Never shall the heart be poorer, Never languish in despair, That such affluence may share; For than this is nothing surer— He hath said, and will prepare In those realms of upper air Glories infinitely fair. |
|
