'Twas in late Autumn, that I rambled lone
Along a country path-nay, 'twas a road-
A common turnpike road;-that thing so far
From landscape loveliness, as Poets deem;
Yet I could find that myriad beauties lay
E'en in that beaten track: - beauties to me,
Though hundreds daily passed along, to whom
The things I gloried in were all unknown,
Unseen unloved; and, doubtless, I must seem
A strange, odd, uncouth being unto them
Because I sought delightful love in books.
Whose language they knew not; while foreign tongues,
And fashion's erudition, they would strive
Ambitious to acquire. Had they e'er read
One page of Nature, with the love devout
Which some are blessed withal, they would not think
That mind distraught, which could delight itself
In contemplation of the smallest weed,
Pebble-leaf-insect—which the lap of earth
Holds in exhaustless wealth.
In their small spirits suffer to arise,
Could they conceive the pleasures, high, refined,
Pleasures not bought with gold-nor giving toil
Nor pain to living creature.
Partook the feelings which companioned me
That bright Autumnal morning! the clear sky,
Azure unbroken, save by one or two
Small downy clouds of silvery white, that served
(In artist-phrase) to tell the depth of blue,
And sailed along so silently and soft,
That I did long to be a cloud myself,
Soaring beside them:-and the Sun's warm rays
Fell kindly on the earth, whose fading garb,
Though torn by recent storms that had nigh stripped
The woodlands of their leavy wealth, looked gay.
I wandered on-along the beaten path,
Musing most happily;-and often paused
Beside the ragged hedgerow, picking out
From the rough tangled mass, despite the thorns,
(Which, sooth to say, defended their charge well,)
Bunches of wild red berries, faded leaves,-
And straggling nettle-tops. Sometimes a stick,
O'er which the pale-green Lichen mantling, wrought
A forest-scene in miniature. Now, a long,
Far-creeping, many-angled stalk of that fair plant,
Fair-seeming, yet oft treach'rous, woody-nightshade:--
The few keen frosts had nipped its verdant leaves,
And most of them had fallen; some remained,
But they were yellow, and the footstalks small,
So brittle, that they dropped off at a touch;
But the bright luscious-looking berries hung
In bunches of rich crimson, juicy, ripe,
And tempting e'en to those who know their bale,
Much more to childish lips! yet those might find
A better treat upon a neighb'ring spray,
That long, arched, prickly streamer, which bent o'er,
Down from the hedge's top, its garland rough,
Bearing the loved Black-berries-though these now
Were "few and far between," and tasteless, too:
Yet frost, which steals the sweetness from the fruit,
Gives to the leaf strange beauty - tinting it
With every various hue, from healthy green
To sickliest yellow-and from that again
Through every soft and brilliant shade that 'longs
To flaming scarlet-richer crimson brown,
In all its myriad grades-purple-and that
Dappled again with black. Oh! I have culled.
An hundred of these painted leaves, and gazed,
And, wondering, looked again upon them all,
Yet ne'er found one whose form of shade or hue
Resembled any other - all unlike;
And then the under surfaces of each
Are white, and smooth, and downy, as if wind,
Nor frost, nor rain might ever come to them.
All o'er the hedge-as if some wealthy nymph
From Neptune's ocean-palace had flung forth
A shower of coral-gleam the polished hyps,
In many a smiling cluster, and we read
An ever-welcome message in their smile:-
It tells us that where they on naked stems,
Leafless and winter-worn, do greet us now,
Summer again will spread her lavish bloom,
And, 'neath the blue sky, bid the roses blush.
Near these, in dark, rich crimson all yclad,
With a soft velvet bloom upon their cheek,
The Hawthorn's winter progeny are seen,
In groups of fruit, which, flavourless to us,
Is a kind harvest to the hungry birds,
And small field mice, who other sustenance
In wintry weather may full seldom find.
So, every thing in Nature hath some end
Of good and useful to achieve
In our small knowledge of her mystic laws
Discern not clearly her appointed path.
Half hid in grass and its own broad bright leaves,
A Summer-flower is lingering e'en yet
Upon the moist hedge-bank- and timidly,
As if it marvelled at its own brave act,
Looks out from its close bower; a prized gem,
Now that its gayer rivals all are gone;
And lovingly we greet the Mallow-flower,
With its striped purple garb and humble mien.
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