LAYS OF THE SEASONS. 

 BY MARY HOWITT. 



AUTUMN 



Arise, them child of nature, rise ! 



Arouse thy slumbering spirit now ! 

 The Autumn sheaves are on the hill, 

 And solemn are the woods and still, 



With clustering fruits on every bough. 



There 's merry laughter in the field, 



And harmless jest and frolic rout ; 

 A nd the last harvest-wain goes by 

 With its rustling load so pleasantly 

 To the glad and clamorous harvest shout. 



There are busy gleaners in the field 

 The old, whose work is never done, 

 And eager, laughing, childish bands 

 Rubbing the ears in their little hands, 

 And singing 'neath the autumn sun. 



