THE AUTUMN PLIGHT. 



From the strongholds of the North 

 When the Ice-King marches forth, 



The Southern lands to harry with his host; 

 The fowl with clang and cry 

 Come speeding through the sky, 



And steering for the shelters on our coast. 



I hear the swish and swing 



Of the fleetly moving wing, 

 I see the forms drawn faintly 'gainst the sky, 



As the rush of feathered legions 



From out the frozen regions, 

 Sail onward 'neath the silent stars on high. 



Like a cloud that's borne along 



By a mighty wind, and strong. 

 Then parting, disappears in vapor light, 



They glide o'er lake and sea 



O'er mountain, moor, and lea, 

 And, passing swiftly, vanish in the night. 



They seek a sunny clime, 



A land of blooms and thyme, 

 The tranquil surface round the southern Key; 



A home of peace and rest 



On the friendly water's breast, 

 Of lake, or flowing river, or the murmuring sea. 

 The gently heaving bosom of the sea. 



