Thine, Autumn, is unwelcome lore— To tell the world its pomp is o’er:
To whisper in the rose’s ear That all her beauty is no more;
And bid her own the faith how vain, Which Spring to her so lately swore.
A queen deposed, she quits her state; The nightingales her fall deplore:
The hundred-voicèd bird may woo The thousand-leavèd flower no more.
The jasmine sinks its head in shame, The sharp east wind its tresses shore;
And robbed in passing cruelly The tulip of the crown it wore.
The lily’s sword is broken now, That was so bright and keen before;
And not a blast can blow, but strews With leaf of gold the earth’s dank floor.
The piping winds sing Nature’s dirge As through the forest bleak they roar,
Whose leafy screen, like locks of eld, Each day shows scantier than before.
Thou fadest as a flower, O man! Of food for musing here is store.
O man! thou fallest as a leaf: Pace thoughtfully earth’s leaf-strewn floor;
Welcome the sadness of the time, And lay to heart this natural lore.
When Moses once on Horeb’s rocky steep, A banished man, was keeping Jethro’s sheep, What time his flocks along the hills and dells Made music with their bleatings and their bells, He by the thoughts that stirred within him, drawn Deep in the mountain, heard at early dawn One who in prayer did all his soul outpour, With deep heart-earnestness, but nothing more. For strange his words were, savage and uncouth, And little did he know in very sooth Of that great Lord, to whom his vows were made. The other for a moment listening staid, Until, his patience altogether spent— “Good friend, for whom are these same noises meant? For him, who dwells on high? this babbling vain, Which vexes even a man’s ear with pain? Oh, stop thy mouth—thou dost but heap up sin, Such prayer as this can no acceptance win, But were enough to make God’s blessings cease.” Rebuked, the simple herdsman held his peace, And only crying—“Thou hast rent my heart,” He fled into the desert far apart: While with himself, and with his zeal content, His steps the Son of Amram homeward bent, And ever to himself applauses lent— Much wondering that he did not find the same From his adopted sire, but rather blame, Who having heard, replied—
“Was this well done? What wouldst thou have to answer, O my son, If God should say in anger unto thee— ‘Why hast thou driven my worshipper from me, Why hast thou robbed me of my dues of prayer? Well pleasing offering in my sight they were, And music in mine ears, if not in thine’— He doth its bounds to every soul assign, Its voice, its language—using which to tell His praise, he counts that it doth praise him well; And when there is a knocking at heaven’s gate, And at its threshold many suppliants wait, Then simple Love will often enter in, While haughty Science may no entrance win. Thus while his words were rougher husks than thine, They yet might keep a kernel more divine,— Rude vessel guarding a more precious wine.