Fremont journal. [volume] (Fremont, Sandusky County [Ohio]) 1853-1866, 1857-02-27
QOttrn.
From the National Era.
THE LAST WALK In AUTUMN.

y
From the National Era.
THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN.
ny o. WHITTIER.
DER the bare woods, whose outstretched hands
Plead with the eaden heavens in vain
sec, beyond the valley lands,
The seas long level dim with rain.
Around me all things, statk and dumb,
Seem praying for the 10 come,
And, for the Summer bloom and greenness gone,
with Winters sunset lights and dazzling morns atone
Along the rivers summer walk,
with withered tufts Of asters nod;
And trcmblcs on its arid stalk
The hoar-plume Of the golden-rod.
Andi the wind, that fails to stir
The azure studded juniper,
The silver birch its buds Of purple shows
And scarlet berries tell who're boomed the sweet wild rose
With mingled sounds Of horns and BELLS
far-heard clang, the wild geese fly,
Storm-sent, from Arctic moors and fclls,
Like great arro* through the sky,
Two dusky lines convergcd in one,
Chasing the southward-nyng sun;
While the brave snow-bird and the hardy jay
Call TO them from the pines, il to bid them stay
1passcd this way a year ago:
The wind blew South; the noon of day
Was June's; and save that
Flccked the wild mountains far away
And that the yernal- al-sceming breeze
Mocked faded grass and lcaHcss trees,
might have dreamed of Summer ~ lay,
Watching the fallen leaves with the soft wind at play.
Since then, the Winter blasts have piled
The white pagodas Of the
On these rough slopes, and, strong and wild,
Yon river, In IFS overllnw
offspring time rain and sun, set free
Crashed with its ices to the sea;
Andovcr these gray fields, then green and gold,
The Summer has waved the thunlers organ rolled
Rich gift of Godi year of time
What pomp of rise and shut of day,
+ What hues wherewith our Northern cline
Makes Autumns dropping woodlands gay,
What airs outblown from fcrny dells,
And clover-bloom and sweet-briar smells,
What songs Of brooks and birds, what fruits and flowers,
Green woods and moonlit SHOWS have in It's beer
know not how, in other lands,
The changing seasons come and 60;
What splendors fall on Syrian sands,
What purple lights on Alpine snowl
Nor how the pomp Of sunrise waits
On Venice at her watery gates;
And the Alhambras halls are but travellers talo.
Yet, on lifc's current, he who drifts
Is with him who rows or sails;
And he who wander's widest, lifts
No more of benuty's jealous wells,
Than he who from his doorway secs
The miracle Of flowers and trees,
Feels the warm Orient in the noon-day air,
And from cloud mnarets hears the call to prayer
The eye may well be glad, that looks
Where Pharpar's fountains rise and fall;
But he who secs his native brooks
Laugh in the sum- has them all.
The marble palaces of Ind
Rise round him in the and wind
From his lone sweet brar Persian Haiz smes
And Romc's cathedral awcis in his woodland asles
And thus II is my fancy blends
The near at hand and far and rare;
And while the same horizon bends
Above the silver-sprinkled hair,
Which flashed the light of morning skies
On childhoods wonder-llfed eyes,
Within its round Of sea, and sky and field, Cvealed
Earth wheels with all her zones the Kosmos stands
And thus the sick man on his bed,
The toiler to his task-work bound,
Behold the prison walls outspread,
Their clipped horizon widen round!
While freedom-giving fancy waits,
like Peters angel at the gates,
The power is there to battle and pain,
To bring the lost world back and make it theirs agan
What lack OF goodly company,
When masters of the ancient Tyre
Obey my call and trace for me
Their words of mingled tears and fire!
talk with Bacon grave and wise,
read tho world with Pascal. erce,
And priest and sage, with solemn brows austere,
And poets garandbound the lords thought draw near
Methinks, oh! friend, hear thee say,
ain vain the human heart we mock;
Bring living guests who love the day,
Not ghosts who fly at crow of cocki
The herbs we share with flesh and blood,
Are better than ambrosial food,
With laurelled shades grant it nothing 10th,
But doubly best is he who partake OF both.
He who might Pato's banquet grace,
Have not seen before me sit,
And watched his puritanic face,
With more than Eastern wisdom litl
shrewd mystici who, upon the back
OF his Poor Richards Almanack,
Writing the Suf's song, the Gentoo's dream,
Link Menus age Of thought to Futon's age of steami
Here too, of answering love secure,
Have not welcomed to my hearth
The gentle pilgrim troubadour,
Whose songs have girdled half the earth;
Whose pages, like the magic mat
whereon the Eastern lover sat-
Have borne Rhine-land's purple vines,
And Nubas tawny sands, and Phrygas mountain pnesi