Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/400

384 HANNAH E. G. AREY [1840-50. AUTUMN. There's a deep wailing in the voice of waves, That late were ringing with a childish glee; And the white billow, to the beach it laves, Advances with a solemn majesty, To bathe the scattered gems of summer's crown, Or bear them to the caves of silence down. And the wild winds are wandering with a thrill Of deeper music, 'mid the thin pale leaves. That to the bough are fondly clinging still; And yet doth every whispered breath, that grieves Their faded beauty, hasten their decay, And bear them to their burial place away. The spreading maple doffs his turban red, Like an old garment — and the beech leaf pale. As falls the silver from a veteran head, Floats downward softly on the murmur- ing gale. And the sad locust, bending to the breeze. Green at his feet, his rent tiara sees. The red sun peers adown the hazy sky. And steals, unchallenged, through the forest bare, Seeking the nooks where perished blos- soms lie. Wistful to know if hfe be lingering there. And through his beams a genial warmth is shed As if he strove to woo them from the dead. A carpet deep of withered leaves is spread. Varied, and rich, the forest walks around ; And, as our careless footsteps o'er them tread. We listen lingering to their rustling sound. Just as we did in childhood, ere we knew How many human hearts lay withering too. Still watcliful wake the myrtle's starry eyes, Still robed in green the trailing willow waves. But the pale wreck of many a garland lies, All closely cradled in the place of graves. Nestling, in death, amid the slumberers there, Yet pouring fragrance on the summer air. Thus doth the memory of the cherished dead. Upon our thoughts in grateful incense rise. And, though their spirits from the earth have tied, The love which bore them upward to the skies Is with us still, all powerful to impart A fragrance to the Autumn of the heart. But in our breast, — like those pale leaves that sleep Clustered within the hollows of the tomb — Upon the graves of buried hopes lie deep The withered flowers of life's sweet summer bloom ; And memory hears their rustling, as she strays 'Mid those dried garlands of departed days.