Poems (Acton)/The Seasons

THE SEASONS. ——

Who cometh, who cometh, with footsteps light,
Calling up smiles to the woodlands bright,
Casting rich tints where a shadow hath been,
Clothing the fields in a mantle of green?
The snowdrop is smiling his coming to meet,
The violet springs from its hiding-place sweet;
There's a glow on the earth, there's a glow in the sky,
And the blossoms burst forth as his step passes by.
Whence cometh, whence cometh, this stranger fair?
Tell me, ye birds of the balmy air!
O mortal! this stranger is joyous Spring;
Soon shall the earth with his footsteps ring.

Who cometh, who cometh, with laugh and song,
Bearing rich fruits and bright flowers along?
The rose and the lily are twined on her brow,
Light is her step 'neath the dark forest bough;
Swift at her presence the clouds pass away,
Bright glows the earth 'neath the sun's golden ray:
Soft sighs the breeze as she comes in her pride,
And panting, the kine seek the cool river side.
Whence cometh, whence cometh, this stranger bright?
Answer me, stars of the peaceful night!
O mortal! 'tis Summer, who casteth her spell
Over forest and plain, over mountain and dell.

Who cometh, who cometh, with sober pace?
Clusters of vine-leaves o'ershadow his face;
Clasped in his hand are the thick sheaves of corn,
And the hunter's wild notes on his footsteps are borne.
Lo! as he cometh, the leaves fall and die,
And a deep yellow tint hath spread over the sky:
The poppies and corn-flow'rs wave high him to greet,
And the rich purple grape lays its stores at his feet.
Whence cometh, whence cometh, this stranger gay?
Speak, oh! ye birds, ere he vanish away!
O mortal! 'tis Autumn, who blithely hath come
To gladden the fields with his harvest home.

Who cometh, who cometh, in mantle grey,
While the blossoms and leaves at his breath pass away?
The holly is twined in his thin, whitened hair;
E'en, as he passes, the forests are hare.
Icicles hang from the garment he wears;
Ivy is bound on the staff that he bears;
Fast from his presence the startled birds fly,
And the chilling wind sweeps through the dark cloudy sky.
Whence cometh, whence cometh, this stranger dread?
Say, oh! ye leaves from the forest trees shed!
O mortal! 'tis Winter: we fly from his blast.
Fare ye well, fare ye well! 'till his sojourn be past.
H. A.