Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1841-1853, 1845-11-06
Indian Summer,


The weather in this vicinity for the past week or
two has been exceedingly delightful. Our Eastern
friends who, perceive by the newspapers are
planning about the nippings of Jack Frost, have
no adequate conception Of the gorgeous richness of
The Indian Summer in the West. The Yankee Indi-
an Summer fer instance is well enough described in
the following lines in the Boston Courier from the
pen of Thomas Buchanan Read:
The HILL the stream, the meadow fair
In anguid beauty lie,
silver mist is DER them all
And reaches to the sky,
Whose dreaming blue softly through
Like Mays melting eye.
From wales to where the forest mods
Beneath ih mountain peak,
Wave Autunns huss that gid the air
With many sunset streak;
And far below the naples glow
AS red as Mays check.
wreath Of glory crowns the Earth
Amid the hay calm,
soft wind sheds around my form
Its lulling feigh, of balm;
The sense it sO0tbes, my brow it smoOths,
Like Mays tender palm.
The hill, the meadow and the sky
The sky rejecting stream,
All, in a silveTy halo clothed,
With slumbTOuS silence teen
And would sleep and keep
My Mary in my dream.
This is rather too soft for even the Indian Summer
of the Middle States, which is better described by
the following lines of Archibald Marks:
1t comes-it comes, with golden sheaf,
In the time Of the and yellow leaf;
And il filings the fruit fOm the Lended tree,
And scatteTs il round in its reckless glee
1t plays the brow Of the maiden fair,
And parts, with its fingers, her raven hair
Ii comes-it comes--and its MINISTRIES wing
Der the CLASSY lake is quiyeTmg,
With music soft "a the mellow strain
OF zephyrs DER the swelling main
1t gladiens the wales as il floats along, =.
And stream and mountain Te-echo the song.
1t comes-it comes, like a fairy sprite,
Anayed in robes Of gOssamer white:
And the carpet Of leaves on the ground is spread,
And the flowers yield meath its conquering tread
For ii strides along in its kingy way,
Like shadows that fit at the close Of day.
1t comes-it comes-and the ripened grain
Is wreathing crowns for its golden reign
And the bright eye sparkIes with liquid light,
Like the star enthroned on the brow of nights
And the tceming fields their offerings bring
At the sainted shrine Of the Autumn King.
But, on this side the Alleghanies, the Revivifca
ton of the Indian Summer is much degraded by
association with Autumnal imagery, as by Mary.
melting eye, red cheek, tender palm, however they
may be improved by the witchery of dreams. Mucl
more appropriate are the following lines from INA
ture,' poem by N B. Street. The Indian Summer
can justly be compared to nothing but itself
Summer. unrobd of all the glowing charms
That graced her pune, but wild and wanion like,
For brief while returns to greet those
O'er which she reignd in queenly loneliness
purple haze is trembling in the air.
Softning all near in wells Of glimmering gauze,
And sleeping far off masses in thick mist,
Blending their outlines with the shaded sky.
So still the atmosphere the thistle's star
Drops motoness on the Such quiet regns,
The low faint cracking of the dry, fall'n leaves
Stirred by the squirrels bounding foot is heard,
The beech-Dut falling from its opened burr
Gives sharp rattle, and the lOcust's song
Rising and swelling shTil then pausing short,
Rings like trumpet. Distant woods and hills
Are full of echoes and each sound that strikes
Upon the hollow air, lets loose her tongues.
The ripples creeping through the matted grass
Drip the ear and drum of the far partridge
Rolls like low thunder. The last butterfly
Like wingd violet floating in the meek
Pink colored sunshine, sinks his velvet feet
Within the pillar'd mulen's delicate down
And shuts and opens his unruiied fans.
LaZily wings the crow with solemn cToak
From tree-top on TO tree-tOp.
Ills the Sabbath rest
Of nature, she yields to Winters power.