Autumn - An 1867 Poem

By Wilmon Whilldin.

The bright Oleander is faded and gone,

The Eglantine bush turneth brown;

The tulips that studded our grotto and lawn,

Dock no more the greensward and mound,

The Exquisite Shrub has lost its perfume;

Its kindred boughs have a golden plume,

But their toilette is fading away.

The Margoram and Myrtle have perished,

And dead is the sweet Marigold;

The Mistletoe vine we cherished

Falls away from lattice and fold,

The grain is garnered — fruit is ripe,

And the husbandman's work is nigh done;

Wild pigeons gather a harvest of seeds

Which mature 'neath the Autumnal sun.

The whistling wind find chilly now,

And the cattle come oft to the barn;

The poultry near the cottage crib,

For the grass is frosted and shorn.

Birds migrate to sunnier climes,

Save a few that are hardy and tough;

Robins flock round the cedar boughs,

Wild plovers go off to the bluff.

The dove coo-coos in the stubble field,

And feasts on the scattered grain;

Larks fly out from the dreary glade,

And away to the valley and plain,

Night gales creep to the rattling reeds,

And frighten the partridge away;

Among the brakes the heron feeds,

And moans till the break of day,

Agile fawn are off to the mountain,

Lithe coyotes off to the lair;

Panting herds come slow to the fountain,

For the liquid is plenty elsewhere.

Falcons flit forth from the eyry,

And pilfer the farmer's brood;

The hunter, with hound lithe and fiery,

Starts the hare from jungle and wood.

Urchins go hunt the chestnut tree,

Or seek the grapes in the dell;

Spry lassies full of joyous glee,

Go gather the nuts that have fell;

Belles now doff their satin and gauze,

For the days are dreary no more;

Lonely looks the quiet lawn,

For its, sweet spell is o'er;

Yellow sheaves are on the mow,

The cribs are teeming with maize;

Contentment lights the farmer's brow,

As he prospects a winter of ease;

Meadows are cropped, and bins are filled;

The racks are bending with hay;

The cider is made — the barley is milled,

And we love the Autumnal day.

Autumn. October 23, 1867. Bloomsburg Democrat 31(34): 1.