SEPTEMBER. 241 



To go, in dreaminess of mood, 



O'er a lone heath, that spreads around 



A solitude like a silent sea, 



Where rises not a hut or tree, 



The wide-embracing sky its bound ! 



Oh ! beautiful those wastes of heath, 



Stretching for miles to lure the bee, 

 Where the wild-bird, on pinion strong, 

 Wheels round and pours his piping song, 



And timid creatures wander free. 



— Far sails the thistle's hoary down ; 



All summer flowers have passed away — 

 This is the appointed time for seed, 

 From the forest-oak to the meanest weed, 



A time of gathering and decay. 



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. 



