25-2 
Whose array is chill, and dark, and dim — 
It irked his sight. 
And he longed to hold 
His stem, harsh, cold 
Dominion o’er all the shivering land. 
And grasp it tight in his frosty hand. 
He threw o’er the earth a wrathful look; 
The Sun grew pale, and the strong ti'ees shook. 
At the icy glance of his withering eye; 
And then his loud voice came rushing by. 
Calling to Autumn; he bade her fling 
Prone to the earth each verdant thing 
That bloomed in the path of the cold Ice-king. 
“Thy reign is o’er”—he sternly cried, 
“ Passing away are thy power and pride. 
Thy golden throne 
Is carried away from the bare hill side; 
Thy flowers all flown 
From fleld, wood, moorland, garden, and lea. 
Then yield up thy desolate realm to me. 
Yet, ere thou go 
Shake the last brown leaves from the forest tree. 
And lay them low; 
Lay them low, as a carpet spread 
On the mossy ground — 
Strew them around. 
Beneath my feet—not o’er my head; 
