The North Star (Rochester)/1848/01/07/Song of the Season
SONG OF THE SEASON.
by Eliza Cook.
Look out, look out, there are shadows about;
The forest is donning its doublet of brown,
The willow tree sways with a gloomier flout,
Like a beautiful face with a gathering frown.
'Tis true we all know that summer must go,—
That the swallow will never stay long in our eaves;
Yet we'd rather be watching the wild rose blow,
Than be counting the colours of Autumn leaves.
Look high, look high, there's the lace-winged fly,
Thinking he's king of a fairy realm,
As he swings with delight on the gossamer tie
That is linked 'mid the boughs of the sun-tipp'd elm.
Alas, poor thing, the first rustle will bring
The pillars to dust, when your pleasure-clue weave,
And many a spirit, like thine, will bring,
To hopes that depend upon Autumn leaves.
Look low, look low, the night-gusts blow,
And the restless forms in hectic red,
Come whirling and spouting wherever we go,
Lighter in dancing, as nearer the dead!
Oh, who has not seen rare hearts, that have been
Painted and puling, in garb that deceives
Dashing gaily along in their fluttering sheen
With Despair at the core, like Autumn leaves.
Look on, look on, morn breaketh upon
The hedge-row boughs, in their withering hue;
The distant orchard is sallow and wan,
But the apple and nut gleam richly through.
Oh, well will it be, if our life, like the tree,
Shall be found, when old Time of green beauty bereaves,
With the fruit of good works for the Planter to see,
Shining out in Truth's harvest, through Autumn leaves.
Merrily pours, as it sings and soars,
The west wind over the lands and seas,
Till it plays in the forest and moans and roars,
Seeming no longer a mirthful breeze.
So music is blest, till it meeteth a breast
That is probed by the strain, while memory grieves
To think it was sung by a loved one at rest,—
Then it comes like the sweet wind in Autumn leaves.
Not in an hour are leaf and flower
Strickened in freshness, and swept to decay;
By gentle approaches, the frost and the shower
Make ready the sap vines for falling away.
And so is man made to as peacefully fade,
By the tear that he sheds and the sigh that he heaves,
For he's loosened from earth by each trial-cloud's shade,
Till he's willing to go, as the Autumn leaves.
Look back, look back, and you'll find the track
Of human hearts, strewn thickly o'er
With joy's dead leaves, all dry and black,
And every year still flinging more.
But the soil is fed, where the branches are shed,
For the furrow to bring forth fuller sheaves,
And so is our trust in the Future spread
In the gloom of Mortality's Autumn leaves.