Autumnal Sonnets Poem by John Critchley Prince

It seems but yesterday, when merry Spring
Leapt o'er the lea, while clustering round her feet
Sprang buds and blossoms, beautiful and sweet,
And her glad voice made wood and welkin ring.
Now Autumn lords it o'er the quiet lands,
Like Joseph, clad in many-coloured vest,
Flinging rich largess from his bounteous hands,
And calling upon man to be his guest.
Like Joseph, he dispenses needful corn,
And fruitage, too, of many a goodly tree,
So that we may not feel ourselves forlorn,
Pining for sustenance at Nature's knee.
Corn, oil, and wine! there's music in the sound!
Oh, would that none might lack when such blest gifts
abound!

Not yet is autumn desolate and cold,
For all his woods are kindling into hues
Of gorgeous beauty, mixed and manifold,
Which in the soul a kindred glow transfuse.
The stubble fields gleam out like tarnished gold
In the mild lustre of the temperate day,
And where the ethereal ocean is unrolled,
Light clouds, like barques of silver, float away;
Ruffling the colours of the forest leaves,
The winds make music as they come and go;
Whispers the withering brake; the streamlet grieves,
Or seems to grieve, with a melodious woe;
Whilst in soft notes, which o'er the heart prevail,
The ruddy-breasted Robin pours his tender tale.

The varying seasons ever roll, and run
Into each other, like that arc of light,
Born of the shower and coloured by the sun—
Which spans the heavens when April skies are bright.
First comes green-kirtled Spring, who leadeth on
Blue-mantled Summer of maturer age,
Sultana of the year. When she is gone,
Gold-girdled Autumn, solemn as a sage,
Reigns for a time, and on earth's ample page
(Illumined by his hand) writes 'Plenty here!'
Then white-cowled Winter steps upon the stage,
Like agèd monk, keen, gloomy, and austere.
But he whose soul sustains no cloud nor thrall,
Perceives power, beauty, good, and fitness in them all