It is the Fall! the season now,
Of rustling airs--of fading flowers;
And Nature with a saddened brow,
Sits brooding o'er her leafless bowers.
Yet Autumn's reign was aye to me
A season of felicity!
I'm standing in a dark recess
Of a vast, dim, primeval wood,
And on me is the consciousness
That springs from such a solitude.
No sounds are nigh save those I love--
No scene my heart's content to move.
A streamlet, gushing from above
Goes dancing past me wild and free,
As the fond boy is said to rove,
Commission'd by Love's Deity.
But _he_ in cities gaily flaunts,
While _this_ seeks only nature's haunts.
And as it tracks the forest's maze,
Through greensward alleys wand'ring wide,
Affects not Folly's treach'rous ways,
Nor looks to Fashion for its guide.
How lulling to my sense its song,--
As thus it sweeps its course along!
The winds are also stirring now,
In murm'ring tones, yon stately pine,
Whose giant branches tend to throw
A deeper shadow o'er this shrine--
This nobler shrine than priest or king
Is wont to use for worshipping.
But lo! 'tis sunset--and the dew
Is settling fast on herb and tree;
Darkness will soon be shrouding too
Each object in obscurity.
My steps again I therefore turn,
_To mix with man, and inly mourn!_
* * *
For the Southern Literary Messenger.