  GOLDEN-RODBESHREW the coinËd gold!—and so take heed, Nor palter with the dross to form a god— Behold, the dandelion gilds the clod, The buttercup adorns the dewy mead! Doth it not bring contentment to thy greed?— Then satiate thine avarice: the sod Gleams with illimitable golden-rod,— And of a surety thou art rich indeed! The burnished banner of the summer's prime Waves happy mortals to a golden feast (The largess rare of yon high Eastern priest!) Unstained by goaded greed, or shame, or crime. Oh, glorious yellow golden-rod!—sublime Free-offering to the greatest and the least. THE brine is in our blood from days of yore, And ever in our ears the tide's tune rings; The wave runs through our legends and our lore, And permeates a thousand diverse things; The memory of our race's Island home Is charged with salt-sea spray and ocean foam. "SUMMER is dead!"—it was the wind that spake In the bronze mantle of the sombre pine— "The sumach bush unfurls a scarlet sign; The sere rush signals it in stream and lake; Soundeth a requiem in gilded brake, Where mateless birds a lonely fate repine; The sky is veiled in tears; each gray confine Bespeaks the shrunken branch the leaves forsake. "I laugh with ruddy Autumn in the morn; I sound his praises in the golden light; But when high noon has passed and raven night Comes rushing down, I wail with those forlorn: The dying leaves, the lone flowers, pale and torn, The multitudes confronting death or flight." |
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