312 SEPTEMBER. 



But go not to the autumn hills, 



Stand not beneath the autumn trees, 

 If thy unchastened spirit brook 

 No warning voice, no stern rebuke, 

 For thy life's ceaseless vanities ! 



Now lift thine eyes, weak child of pride, 

 And lo ! behind yon branching pine, 

 Broad, red, and like a burning sun, 

 Comes up the glorious autumn-moon, 

 God's creature, like a thing divine ! 



It is not as our childhood deemed 



The nightly moon, a silver shield, 

 Borne on some viewless warrior's breast 

 In battle from the east to west, 

 Along the blue ethereal field. 



Oh high magnificence of eve ! 



Thus silent in thy pomp of light, 

 A world self-balanced thou appearest, 

 An ark of fire, which onward steerest 



Thy upward, glorious course aright ! 



The peasant stands beside his door, 

 To mark thee, in thy bright ascent ; 



The village matron, 'neath her tree, 



Sits, in her simple piety, 



Gazing in silent wonderment. 



