Classic Poem

Now the growing year is over,
And the shepherd's tinkling bell
Faintly from its winter cover
Rings a low farewell:—
Now the birds of Autumn shiver,
Where the withered beech-leaves quiver,
O'er the dark and lazy river,
In the rocky dell.

Now the mist is on the mountains,
Reddening in the rising sun;
Now the flowers around the fountains
Perish one by one:—
Not a spire of grass is growing,
But the leaves that late were glowing
Now its blighted green are strowing
With a mantle dun.

Now the torrent brook is stealing
Faintly down the furrowed glade,—
Not as when, in winter pealing,
Such a din it made,
That the sound of cataracts falling
Gave no echo so appalling,
As its hoarse and heavy brawling
In the pine's black shade.

Darkly blue the mist is hovering
Round the clifted rock's bare height,
All the bordering mountains covering
With a dim, uncertain light:—
Now, a fresher wind prevailing,
Wide its heavy burden sailing,
Deepens, as the day is failing,
Fast the gloom of night.

Slow the blood-stained moon is riding
Through the still and hazy air,
Like a sheeted spectre gliding
In a torch's glare:—
Few the hours her light is given,—
Mingling clouds of tempest driven
O'er the mourning face of heaven,
All is blackness there.