Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Arthur Quiller-Couch, comp. The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse. 1922.

Fall of the Year

Henry Ellison (1811–1880)

WHEN Grasshopper, chirping late,

Easing thus his merry heart,

Not from cares but over-joy

Tells that Summer ’s out of date,

Yet thereat no fears annoy

His blithe spirit—not one smart

For lost moments, wishes ill—

As he sang so sings he still;

In his life-dregs keeping holy

That joy-essence fresh and clear,

Free from taint of melancholy,

Which from Nature, when the Year

Saw his birthday young like him,

He received, a boon of Glory

Man might envy, whom a whim—

A mere nothing—can o’er-dim …

When the Redbreast whistles blithe,

Taking of sweet song his fill,

Tho’ the other birds be still;

And the lambs full-sized bleat strong,

Well-wool’d ’gainst the Winter’s chill;

When no more the reaping-scythe

Finds a cornstalk to cut down,

And the stubble field looks brown

Where the formless vapour shows

Objects indistinct and wrong;

When the daylight shorter grows,

And owl’s and bat’s delight is long;

When, nigh eveless, Night draws on,

Waiting scarce for set of sun;

Like enchantress whose high spell

Works a sudden miracle …

When the peasant, weather-wise,

Shakes his grey head at the skies;

By his blazing cottage-flame

Mutters Winter’s chilly name,

Lives o’er the past, in many a tale,

And prophesies, and quaffs his ale:

While in chimney-nook to sleep

Tirèd dog and urchin creep:

When the weather-signs are rife,

Telling of new Season’s life;

And all creatures, instinct-wise,

Tho’ taught not to philosophise,

Now prepare, each in his way,

To protract life’s little day;

And thy own heart plainer still

Than falling leaf or faded hill,

Tells thee that the Summer ’s flown

With all joys that thou hast known …

Then look thro’ thy heart, and say

What the Summer in its day

Has ripen’d there of good and bright

That may glad thy after-sight.

Has it had its harvest-home?

Its Spring growth? its Summer bloom?

And, when bloom has pass’d away,

Has it had its seeding-day

Of well-ripen’d season’d thought

From Experience duly bought;

Of wise joys which in the mind

Seeds of better leave behind;

Joys by sorrow touch’d and tried,

And freed from earthly dross and pride;

Such as unreproved and free

Sweeten after-memory?

Has the Summer left for thee

In the soul’s high-granary

Produce not of hasty growth

But of well-maturèd worth?

Fellow-creature Love and Peace,

With a mind and heart at ease,

And a love for everything

With which Man holds communing,

From the meanest worm that creeps

To the babe that cradled sleeps?

Has the Summer left thy heart

That which passes show, the art

Like wise Nature to prepare

From the Past a Future fair?

As the Earth within her breast,

When she seems at barren rest

Still prepares in her good time

Coming Springs, and from the slime

Of the brute soil moulds to life

Forms with grace and beauty rife;

So within thy inmost soul

Striving t’wards a higher goal,

From this life’s impediments,

And the body’s downward bents,

Frame thou the wings to upward aims

As from the gross wood rise pure flames.

In thy spirit’s fertile womb

Mould thou shapes not for the tomb:

There let Faith beget on Love

The angel thou shalt be Above!