192 JOHN H. BRYANT. [1830-40. THE INDIAN SUMMER. That soft, autumnal time Is gone, that sheds, upon the naked scene. Charms only known in this our northern clime — Bright seasons, far between. The woodland foliage now Is gathered by the wild November blast ; E'en the thick leaves upon the oaken bough Are fallen, to the last. The mighty vines, that round The forest trunks their slender branches bind, ^ Their crimson foliage shaken to the ground. Swing naked to the wind. Some living green remains By the clear brook that shines along the lawn ; But the sear grass stands white o'er all the plains. And the bright flowers are gone. But these, these are thy charms — Mild airs and tempered light upon the lea ; And the year holds no time within his arms That doth resemble thee. The sunny noon is thine, Soft, golden, noiseless as the dead of night; And hues that in the flushed horizon shine At eve and early light. The year's last, loveliest smile, Thou com'st to fill with hope the human heart. And strengthen it to bear the storms awhile, Till winter's frowns depart. O'er the wide plains, that lie A desolate scene, the fires of autumn spread, And on the blue walls of the starry sky, A strange wild glimmer shed. Far in a sheltered nook I've met, in these calm days, a smiling flower, A lonely aster, trembling by a brook, At noon's warm quiet hour : And something told my mind. That, should old age to childhood call me back. Some sunny days and flowers I still might find Along life's weary track. ON A FOUNTAIN IN A FOREST. Three hundred years are scarcely gone. Since, to the New World's virgin shore. Crowds of rude men were pressing on To range its boundless regions o'er. Some bore the sword in bloody hands, And sacked its helpless towns for spoil ; Some searched for gold the river's sands. Or trenched the mountain's stubborn soil. And some with higher purpose sought, Through forests wild and wastes uncouth, Sought with long toil, yet found it not, — The fountain of eternal youth ! They said in some green valley, where The foot of man had never trod, There gushed a fountain bright and fair. Up from the ever-verdant sod. There they who drank should never know Age, with its weakness, pain, and gloom ; And from its brink the old should go With youth's light step and radiant bloom. Is not this fount, so pure and sweet, Whose stainless current ripples o'er The fringe of blossoms at my feet. The same those pilgrims sought of yore ?
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