By Isaac McLellan

It is October, and the glory of the year
Is in the skies and on the woods extended far and near;
It glows in burnish’d clouds, it flushes all the air;
It lies in hollow vales, in uplands brown and bare.

The tufted groves have lost their bright midsummer green,
And now a softer russet-flush creeps o’er the woodland scene;
O’er distant purple hills there floats a gauzy veil,
A silver vapor hovers o’er the river in the vale.

The orchard trees all glisten with globes of yellow gold,
That bend the bough and strew the earth with opulence untold;
The ripen’d corn-fields shake their pennons thin and white,
And to a feast, the chestnuts, the village school invite.

The gossamer spider-web is strung from tree to tree,
And up the air the thistle-down floats like a ship at sea;
The asters and the dahlias like flames in gardens glow,
And by the roadside wild flowers display a royal show.

Dim seen, the cautious angler glides on from brook to brook,
Now by the open meadow, now in some bushy nook.
And now across the mill-pond, with water-plants o’ergrown,
I see his floating boat, and where his lines are thrown.

And o’er the salty marsh the gun’s report I hear,
And see the snipe and curlews stop in their swift career;
While o’er the open bays I see the wild-ducks wheel,
The red-neck and the widgeon, the whistler and the teal.

O glorious days of autumn! with all your pomp of skies;
Tour harvests and your fruits, your flowers of matchless dyes
How dear to manly sportsman your ripe, imperial time;
Your sports by “stream and forest,” in Nature’s royal prime.