Classic Poem

Hail , genial Autumn! On th' horizon clear
Thine outlines rise, fair Harbour of the Year;
As the white cliffs, seen faintly o'er the foam,
To wave-worn sailors promise rest at home;
Season not only felt by tree and flower,
The Man, the State, the Muse, confess thy power,
Each owns thy influence. Not to thee belong
The youth of Spring, the burst of lyric song,
Nor all the blended harmonies that tune
The softened strength of Manhood's summer noon:
Yet though the fire must sink; though now are gone
The flowers that once in Fancy's garden shone;
Though the heart leap not to the amorous dance,
And visionary dream of young Romance;
Some balms thou hast, to soothe approaching Age,
More than the Spring can give; Experience sage,
The penetrating Mind, the judging Soul,
The skill to measure Life's proportioned whole;
And if the songs of Love thou must resign,
The ethic Ode, the Elegy, are thine;
To reap these fields thy Muse may still avail,
Though late the harvest. Genial Autumn, hail.

As smiles the mother, when in time appears
Her infant, born with travail and with tears;
As joys the poet, who beholds his scheme
Rise from the dim conception of a dream,
And sees the live creation grow mature,
In form proportioned, in expression sure;
So when our weary Mother, Earth, has run
An eight months' journey round the ripening Sun,
Poised on the autumn's verge, she seems to rest,
And views, well-pleased, the offspring of her breast.
Hushed in the woodland boughs, the birds are still;
Scarce murmurs through the copse, the dwindled rill;
The sap more faintly circles through the leaves,
Just tinged with gold; and many a wain receives
From many a subject soil the tributary sheaves.
Barley, and oats, and wheat have stored their grain,
Alone untouched the ripened hops remain,
Though, thick with flower, the tendrils upward trend,
And golden clusters from the twine depend.
Speed then your gathering bands, ye farmers, speed!
Let oast and bin the reaper's toil succeed;
Lest, while ye still delay, the linnet's beak
A swift destruction in your garden wreak;
Or sudden tempest make Occasion slip,
And dash the brimming goblet from your lip!

So, on an August eve, ere now, I've seen
In the low sun a garden glow serene:
With scarce a breeze each heavy cluster fanned,
Seemed but to wait to-morrow's gathering hand.
In crowns of gold I watched the hop-poles rise,
And Eldorado gleamed before my eyes.
Then on the helpless rows a midnight wind
From ambush sprang, with torrent rains combined,
And lo! at morn, where flamed that dream of gold,
A waste of withered flowers and cankered mould!
So, reared like Babel on foundations frail,
Sinks human pride, so man's ambitions fail:
A breath of autumn blasts a year's desires,
And twelve months' labour in a night expires.

But now, behold! the southern roads along,
Pours from the city's heart the pilgrim throng.
To Canterbury still their way they wend
Through Southwark streets — but with what different end.
With mien how different, from the Tabard's door
Rode forth that joyous pilgrimage of yore!
Though scarce less various seem each motley kind,
For these no bridles jingle in the wind;
No hospitable Host, with converse gay,
No Miller's bagpipe cheers them on their way;
But Hunger with his sunken cheek is there,
To-day's Resourcelessness, To-morrow's Care;
From many a dreary haunt of dwindled Trade,
Of sweated Labour and of Crafts decayed,
They quit their alleys, and, with fitful joy,
In Kent's fair gardens snatch a month's employ.

See, 'neath his load yon pale-faced weaver bow
His weary frame! mark well his pensive brow!
Two hundred autumns have been told by Time,
Since first his fathers fled their sunny clime,
To claim the chartered boons this land bestowed —
The equal-measured tax, the safe abode,
The right for each to seek his chosen good,
And worship Heaven whatever way he would;
His art to ply, and, with the State's good-will,
To reap secure the harvest of his skill.
To these 'neath Southern skies they left their loom,
And wove their silken web in London's gloom;
Their homes forsook, and camped on alien ground,
Nor mourned their loss — for Freedom here they found.
Oh! had those fathers dreamed what deeds of shame
Should yet be done in English Freedom's name;
Had seen Free Trade their children's rights deny;
Heard a free City's universal cry.
" Freedom is to be rich! Be rich or die!" —
Sure, with such foresight, they had ne'er removed
Their habitation from the land they loved;
Thus free, in chains they had preferred to dance,
And born to slavery, died as slaves in France.

Or that poor wanderer note, recalled by Fate
To watch where opened once his garden-gate;
Where 'neath the rose-clad porch, at fall of eve,
His homeward steps his cottage would receive.
Him, of safe toil and weekly wage assured,
The golden promise of the Town allured;
High on her crest a wave of Fortune bore,
Then left him stranded on a barren shore.
Familiar things, to Memory, ah, how sweet!
Gaze where he will, his longing vision greet.
Unchanged he sees, against the evening skies,
The lofty spire, the red-roofed gables, rise.
No axe has touched the consecrated glade,
Where through the wood his childish footsteps strayed:
Along each hedge he numbers every tree;
All things have kept their station — all but he.
Like Esau would he now his course retrace,
His birthright's gone; another fills his place.
For him no more that cheerful hearth shall burn,
That lighted casement hail his glad return,
To share the well-earned meal, the wholesome sleep:
Those boons were his — he turns his head to weep.

Now rises morn, and, with her risen rays,
The farmer's eye his marshalled host surveys:
In equal shares he parts the garden lines;
Each rank distributes, and each post assigns;
But, no less just than wise, leaves every plot
Among th' expectant hands to fall by lot.
Were his the choice, the tongue of envious blame,
Methinks, might blot his equitable fame;
Since loud they triumph who, by Fortune's scheme,
Obtain their portion near the running stream.
More deeply fertile there they know the soil,
Washed from the hillside slope; there easier toil
Brings to the swelling bin a more abundant spoil.
By lot of old, at Moses' wise command,
The tribes of Israel share the Promised Land;
Else half Manasseh would, he knew, ascribe
Their brethren's western luck to Joshua's bribe.

Around the garden the blue landscape glows:
Fair is the social scene: away, repose!
Time, Weather, Mood, Occasion, Sun, and Sky,
Bid every roof the household task lay by;
And all alike, the matron and the maid,
Join son or lover and the harvest aid.
Shrouded at first in deep pavilions green,
Proceeds the toil, not silent, though unseen;
But soon, with glimpse of flying hands revealed,
Blue skirt, red bodice, fleck the brightening field,
As the strong hinds, in each deplenished row,
Lay the stripped poles, like captive standards, low;
Then for their eager troops fresh booty win,
Measure each brimming, feed each empty bin,
Within whose bosom, thick as Danai's shower,
Descends the golden cluster, flower by flower.
A grateful odour floats upon the breeze,
And lulls the labourer's sense with soothing ease;
Or spreads its soft narcotic influence round,
Where cradled babes lie fast in slumber bound;
Above their heads glad talk and rustic mirth resound.

Meantime, from the gay harvest throng apart,
High in the oast the drier plies his art,
To feed the kiln, and keep an even flame
In the round stove, a wight of peerless fame;
Through all the neighbouring dales renowned as much
For certain judgement as for finer touch.
The loaded wains arrived, he bids them pour
The yellow affluence on the topmost floor,
Heavy with dews of heaven. Anon, below,
He stirs the furnace to a tempered glow,
And feeds the flame with sulphur's brightening blend:
From the moist flowers the drowsy fumes ascend,
Rush through the cowl to mingle with the day,
And in blue vapour breathe their weight away.
Then, hour by hour, amid the dwindled heap,
For the last proof his feeling fingers creep;
And as the shrivelling stalks show hard and dry,
The cooling chamber claims the rich supply.

Thus all conspire to win the common good,
With varied skill, but kindly brotherhood.
October brings the toiling garden rest;
The oast's last yield is in the canvas pressed;
The last red embers in the kiln expire;
The last tired labourer's hand receives his hire:
To Labour and to Wealth alike be given
Exchange of thanks; from both the praise to Heaven:
Then, with glad hearts, let all united come,
And at the Landlord's feast sing Harvest Home.

Fair social Customs of an ancient day!
Must slow disease waste all these charms away?
These viewless links, by Nature's kindly plan
Uniting Earth to Heaven, and man to man,
Dissolve in soulless elements, decayed
By the long rot of too luxuriant Trade,
Lost in the welter of oblivious Time,
And unlamented in one poet's rhyme?

Oh for an echo of that matchless lyre
Borne on the breeze of thy " dull Devonshire",
Once more in " noble numbers" to record
The harvest gathering and the festive board!
Since, among British bards, alone in thee,
Herrick, was found his " choice felicity",
Whose verse enshrined Bandusia's crystal charm,
And the plain dainties of the Sabine farm.
Thou couldst command thy lord, on his own ground,
Come with his hinds to see the Hock-cart crowned,
Breathe the fine fancies of a poet's soul
O'er Twelfth-Night revel, and o'er wassail bowl,
And tune, on " curious unfamiliar" string,
The feast of Mab and of the Fairy King.

But other times are ours. Thy gracious art
Scarce saw the lingering Feudal Age depart;
And easier was the task for verse like thine
To praise a world by all believed divine.
Then every Saint could claim his festal day,
By faith made holy, and by custom gay;
By stream and fountain Legend wandered free,
And on each hill Tradition marked her tree.
As in the Golden Age, the genial soil
Offered, unasked, poetic wine and oil;
Fancy put forth her swift unlabouring hand,
And plucked the fruit — for all was Fairyland.

Little did then those rural souls profess
Of life's experience, and of learning less.
Far from the clash of civil conflict, far
From factious Senate and from wrangling Bar,
Of Nature's busy universal scene,
The labour of the fields, that lay between
Their saffron daybreak and their sunset glow,
Was all they knew, and all they cared to know;
Like foreign kingdoms seemed each neighbouring shire,
And the world's centre was their village spire.
Yet could their faith on loftier pinnion soar,
And worlds unknown to our dull sense explore.
If smaller seemed their starry system, Space
For them was peopled with the Angel race;
If to their earth too narrow bounds were given,
The larger prospect they enjoyed of Heaven.

Nor was Religion then content to dwell
In starry distance or in hermit's cell.
To rule the busy world she gave' good heed,
And curbed th' excess of individual greed:
Taught by her holy text, the Guild surveyed
The realms of toil, and in each ordered Trade
Labour and Wealth alike her equal laws obeyed:
Whether a simpler faith their souls refined,
Or local kinship made their hearts more kind,
With louder voice (for each was bound to each
By mutual service and by daily speech)
Fair Mercy spoke; and lives unused to roam
More dearly prized the charities of Home.

What more than these have we of wisdom won?
Though in her scales proud Science weigh the sun,
Though swift electric streams our bodies bear
Through depths of ocean and through heights of air,
Say if Life's deep our plummet farther sounds,
Than his who scarcely crossed his parish bounds?
Mere Number, born earth's produce to consume,
Can Home or Country in our hearts find room,
Who to our soil confess no binding tie,
Save to sell dearly what we cheaply buy,
And free from household, family, and clan,
No more our neighbour love, but Abstract Man?
What serves, in times when nothing may abide,
Except to drift upon Opinion's tide,
Seize each impression ere it fade away,
Adore to-morrow what we burn to-day,
And vainly struggling from ourselves to flee,
Call our perpetual motion — Liberty?

From ruined Rome did Liberty ascend
To destinies like these? Is this her end?
Thou, whose wise foresight Church and State allied,
And bade them rule as equals, side by side,
The civil Sceptre sacred Truth sustain,
Was then, imperial Charles, thy labour vain?
Of this thy Vision could the ages save
No rack or remnant from Oblivion's wave,
But all must vanish, like that land of yore
By Ocean severed from the Cornish shore?
There as they tell, when Britain's life was young,
Glittered the castle, and the steeple sprung;
There Saints wrought miracles, there rode the Knight,
For love of Ladies and defence of Right;
Till, swift as thought, th' Atlantic rose to whelm
The living scene, and sunk so deep the realm,
That now its ancient limits none may guess,
And say with surety: " This was Lyonnesse!"
Save when, becalmed, with all his nets afloat,
Some Celtic fisher, dreaming in his boat,
Looks through the wave, and deems he can behold
Far shining spires and battlements of gold.
Then on his charmed ear, up-surging, swells
The blare of trumpet, or the chime of bells,
And bids him ponder, in believing vein,
What worlds shall rise when Arthur comes again.

Forbid it, Heaven, that thoughts of noble worth
For lack of nurture wither from the earth!
Such do not die; but when Ideas descend
From God, with earthly elements they blend.
Condensed like stars, awhile men's steps they guide,
But mix their life with Sloth, Ambition, Pride;
Till, home returning on their heavenly way,
They burst their robe of perishable clay:
The shattered Form surrounding Nature feeds,
And scatters through the earth celestial seeds.
Long buffeted by strife 'twixt Pope and King,
Antique Religion from the world took wing,
But with the Image that her soul enshrined
Touched, ere she passed, the Conscience of mankind.
Time, Avarice, Order, Commerce, banished hence
Fair Chivalry, " the nations" cheap defence';
Yet when the soul of Knighthood sought the sky,
To raise our lives was left us — Loyalty.

As springs the infant stream, with slender tide,
And leaps impetuous down the mountain side;
Soon, with a thousand tributaries fed,
Through the low plain it sinks a deeper bed;
Anon by town and tower its waters roll,
And bear whole navies to their ocean goal;
Yet ever, as its mighty volume grows,
It feels the impulse of its cradling snows; —
So, from mixed races and a hundred strains,
Continuous Freedom fills our English veins;
To shores remote its branching currents run,
Yet Blood and Story keep the nation One:
No self-ruled race, through all th' imperial course,
But owns the heart of Britain for its source.

What, though no more be drawn the " Vassal's" sword,
To waste the manors of some neighbour lord;
Nor sovereign " Benefice", nor knightly " Fee",
Exact the " Homage" of his bended knee?
Yet Kinship, common Speech, and old Renown,
Claim from afar due service for the Crown;
And if in peril England call the " Ban",
From many an Ocean Freedom sends her " Man".

Let not the heart despair. I see, I see
A happier age of purged Feudality!
From loyal waves the free Dominions spring,
A hundred Kingdoms but a single King,
Whose will, by no compulsion, all obey,
A patriot Monarch he, free Liegemen they;
Thence, sent from torrid suns, from polar snow,
From Austral skies with alien stars a-glow,
To Thames' far shores the chosen statesmen come,
To guard the glory of their ancient Home.
Each of his country's inmost mind possessed,
They meet their peers, the Council of the Best.
Called by their Sovereign, by their States elect,
They serve no Faction, they advance no Sect:
Domestic bounds their lofty thoughts surpass;
Wealth strives no more with Labour, Class with Class.
Unfettered forethought, free debate is theirs,
Confederate counsels, and imperial cares; —
How through the tangled maze a way to find
What Blood unites by Interest to bind;
With even weight to bid the taxes fall;
To make the Wealth of each the Health of all;
The Empire's tolls in ordered scheme to range;
Fix in her rival Marts the just exchange;
Protect the poor man's toil; rich Greed control;
Guard th' Individual, and defend the Whole.

Such let the issue be! Nor, Reader, deem
In thoughts like these I rashly quit my theme.
Party is Britain's bane. As Faction dies,
The patriot soul shall from the ashes rise:
That soul our hearts and tillage shall restore,
With that our vanished Gardens bloom once more.