LAYS OF THE SEASONS. 



BY MARY HOWITT. 

 III. 



AUTUMN. 



ARISE, thou 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 ; 

 And 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. 



There are peasants in the hamlets low, 



Busied among their orchard-trees, 

 Where the pleasant apples are red and gold, 

 Like token-fruits of those of old, 

 In the gardens of the Hesperides. 



