Ode I. to Autumn

As by this ample field I stray, That glitters with thy golden store, While from his throne the king of day Exerts his full meridian power, If ever from thy sacred bower The Muse thy presence may implore, Attend, O Autumn, to the strain, That paints the honours of thy reign.

She comes! She comes! Behold the maid With wheaten crown and saffron vesture Adorned, but more with matron gesture, And charms that need not Art's vain aid. All hail, thou queen of plenty, hail! Thine are the treasures of the vale That life and health to all afford, Best bounties of the social board: Thine is the orchards blushing hoard With balm and various nectar stored. Thine is the Morn so fresh and gay, That from her opal tower displays Her crimson banner's wavy blaze, While from the west the moon's wan ray Lends all the dewey landscape bright A double shade, a double light, Here gilded with the matin beam, There with the meek moon's silver gleam. Thine when o'er every dusky mead, The grey Mist spreads her silent sway, That opening to the gold of day The trees their pearly spangles shed, And smiling, thro' the twilight scene Reveal their robes of glittering green.

When Noon in thy full splendor clad, As now, roams o'er each mountain head, No fever burns the vital air, But thro' the sprightly azure clear Each Gale of vivid vigor strays, And sports amid the tempered rays. O hour when Milton, sage of song, Immerst in bliss of lofty thought, Would wander thy shorn fields along, Then turn with sacred treasures fraught. Say heavenly Muse (for thou wast there) What seraph forms his soul did chear, His darkling steps by thee when led, Pensive amid the noon day glade He heard celestial music breathe 'Above, about, or underneath, 'Sent by some spirit to mortals good, 'Or the unseen genius of the wood?'

Thine is the Eve so blyth and chill, When from each wood and bosky hill The birds their farewell anthems pour, To greet the day's sepulchral hour. Like airs each tuneful breast inspire That meditates the pensive scene, And cites the ardors of the lyre That raise the mind on wings of fire; Or tunes to softer charms serene, How vain our fleeting state that show, How vain all Fortune can bestow, How vain our bliss, how vain our woe.

When thy mild Morn and chearful Noon, Sweet Season, hold their radiant throne, Be mine the breezy ocean shore, Or sunny field, or mountain high Of widest view, of clearest sky, Thy varied riches to explore.

When gleaming through a vermil cloud The twilight star reveals his beam, Be mine the walk with trees embowed, The lonely heath, the plaintive stream: Till shining from her southern bower Thy mild moon show her yellow light, Till shades of deepest darkness lour, And all thy empire yield to night.