Tuesday, September 13, 2022

#WingedWordsWindsday: 2022/09/14 -- Legendary Origins of the British Monarchy

 WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 1, No. 46: September 14, 2022


 



The Legendary Origins of the British Monarchy




Editor’s Note

                Three years ago, on Halloween 2019, I was discussing the poems of Taliesin (fl. 6th century CE), a legendary Welsh bard, with one of the ACES James Scholars who is also a published poet. She was wondering about the meaning of a line in one of his poems, in which he says to his listeners, “Now I have come to the remnant of Troy.” Here’s the answer to that question – and thereby hangs a tale – the legendary account of how the British monarchy was established, in the aftermath of the Trojan War.

                This week, I’d like to present a story that has captivated my imagination since the late 1980s, when I was majoring in Classical Philology in the College of LAS at the University of Illinois. Every culture has a foundational legend or cycle of legends – stories that explain how and why the culture was founded, and by whom. Such stories exemplify the values and beliefs of the people who transmit them from one generation to the next. For medieval Britons, their foundational legend is grounded in the classical poetry of Homer and Virgil, as can be seen from the story of Brutus the Trojan, the legendary first King of Britain, as retold below.

                We begin with a summary of the legend from the first stanza of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, a 14th-century Middle English poem, which is a classic of Arthurian literature:

 

Stanza #1 of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

Translated by Jessie L. Weston (1850-1928)

After the siege and the assault of Troy, when that burg was destroyed and burnt to ashes, and the traitor slain for his treason, the noble Aeneas and his kin sailed forth to become princes and patrons of well-nigh all the Western Isles. Thus Romulus built Rome (and gave to the city his own name, which it bears even to this day); and Ticius turned him to Tuscany; and Langobard raised him up dwellings in Lombardy; and Felix Brutus sailed far over the French flood, and founded the kingdom of Britain, wherein have been war and waste and wonder, and bliss and bale, oft-times since.

 

Brutus of Troy, the legendary founder of the British monarchy, as pictured in a 15th-century manuscript. (Image Credit: Publc Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 


Excerpt from The Age of Chivalry

Chapter 2: “The Mythical History of England”

By Thomas Bulfinch (1796-1867)

                The illustrious poet, Milton, in his History of England, is the author whom we chiefly follow in this chapter.

                According to the earliest accounts, Albion, a giant, and son of Neptune, a contemporary of Hercules, ruled over the island, to which he gave his name. Presuming to oppose the progress of Hercules in his western march, he was slain by him.

                Another story is that Histion, the son of Japhet, the son of Noah, had four sons, Francus, Romanus, Alemannus, and Britto, from whom descended the French, Roman, German, and British people.

                Rejecting these and other like stories, Milton gives more regard to the story of Brutus, the Trojan, which, he says, is supported by "descents of ancestry long continued, laws and exploits not plainly seeming to be borrowed or devised, which on the common belief have wrought no small impression; defended by many, denied utterly by few." The principal authority is Geoffrey of Monmouth, whose history, written in the twelfth century, purports to be a translation of a history of Britain brought over from the opposite shore of France, which, under the name of Brittany, was chiefly peopled by natives of Britain who, from time to time, emigrated thither, driven from their own country by the inroads of the Picts and Scots. According to this authority, Brutus was the son of Silvius, and he of Ascanius, the son of Aeneas, whose flight from Troy and settlement in Italy are narrated in Stories of Gods and Heroes.

                Brutus, at the age of fifteen, attending his father to the chase, unfortunately killed him with an arrow. Banished therefor by his kindred, he sought refuge in that part of Greece where Helenus, with a band of Trojan exiles, had become established. But Helenus was now dead and the descendants of the Trojans were oppressed by Pandrasus, the king of the country. Brutus, being kindly received among them, so throve in virtue and in arms as to win the regard of all the eminent of the land above all others of his age. In consequence of this the Trojans not only began to hope, but secretly to persuade him to lead them the way to liberty. To encourage them, they had the promise of help from Assaracus, a noble Greek youth, whose mother was a Trojan. He had suffered wrong at the hands of the king, and for that reason the more willingly cast in his lost with the Trojan exiles.

                Choosing a fit opportunity, Brutus with his countrymen withdrew to the woods and hills, as the safest place from which to expostulate, and sent this message to Pandrasus: "That the Trojans, holding it unworthy of their ancestors to serve in a foreign land, had retreated to the woods, choosing rather a savage life than a slavish one. If that displeased him, then, with his leave, they would depart to some other country." Pandrasus, not expecting so bold a message from the sons of captives, went in pursuit of them, with such forces as he could gather, and met them on the banks of the Achelous, where Brutus got the advantage, and took the king captive. The result was, that the terms demanded by the Trojans were granted; the king gave his daughter Imogen in marriage to Brutus, and furnished shipping, money, and fit provision for them all to depart from the land.

                The marriage being solemnized, and shipping from all parts got together, the Trojans, in a fleet of no less than three hundred and twenty sail, betook themselves to the sea. On the third day they arrived at a certain island, which they found destitute of inhabitants, though there were appearances of former habitation, and among the ruins a temple of Diana. Brutus, here performing sacrifice at the shrine of the goddess, invoked an oracle for his guidance, in these lines:

 

"Goddess of shades, and huntress, who at will

Walk'st on the rolling sphere, and through the deep;

On thy third realm, the earth, look now, and tell

What land, what seat of rest, thou bidd'st me seek;

What certain seat where I may worship thee

For aye, with temples vowed and virgin choirs."

 

To whom, sleeping before the altar, Diana in a vision thus answered:

 

"Brutus! far to the west, in the ocean wide,

Beyond the realm of Gaul, a land there lies,

Seagirt it lies, where giants dwelt of old;

Now, void, it fits thy people: thither bend

Thy course; there shalt thou find a lasting seat;

There to thy sons another Troy shall rise,

And kings be born of thee, whose dreaded might

Shall awe the world, and conquer nations bold"

 

                Brutus, guided now, as he thought, by divine direction, sped his course towards the west, and, arriving at a place on the Tyrrhene sea, found there the descendants of certain Trojans who, with Antenor, came into Italy, of whom Corineus was the chief. These joined company, and the ships pursued their way till they arrived at the mouth of the river Loire, in France, where the expedition landed, with a view to a settlement, but were so rudely assaulted by the inhabitants that they put to sea again, and arrived at a part of the coast of Britain, now called Devonshire, where Brutus felt convinced that he had found the promised end of his voyage, landed his colony, and took possession.

                The island, not yet Britain, but Albion, was in a manner desert and inhospitable, occupied only by a remnant of the giant race whose excessive force and tyranny had destroyed the others. The Trojans encountered these and extirpated them, Corineus, in particular, signalizing himself by his exploits against them; from whom Cornwall takes its name, for that region fell to his lot, and there the hugest giants dwelt, lurking in rocks and caves, till Corineus rid the land of them.

                Brutus built his capital city, and called it Trojanova (New Troy), changed in time to Trinovantus, now London;

 

"For noble Britons sprong from Trojans bold,

And Troynovant was built of old Troy's ashes cold.”

-- Edmund SPENSER: The Faerie Queen, Book III, Canto IX, Line 38

 

and, having governed the isle twenty-four years, died, leaving three sons, Locrine, Albanact and Camber. Locrine had the middle part, Camber the west, called Cambria from him, and Albanact Albania, now Scotland.

 

Brutus I Felix, the legendary first King of Britain (fl. ca. 1100 BCE), as depicted in a Middle English chronicle from the 15th century CE. (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 


The Landing of the Trojans at Totnes in Devonshire (SW England)

Excerpted from King Edward III by William Blake (1757-1827)

Our fathers swarm from the ships. Giant voices

Are heard from the hills, the enormous sons

Of Ocean run from rocks and caves: wild men

Naked and roaring like lions, hurling rocks,

And wielding knotty clubs, like oaks entangled

Thick as a forest, ready for the axe.

Our fathers move in firm array to battle,

The savage monsters rush like roaring fire;

Like as a forest roars with crackling flames,

When the red lightning, borne by furious storms,

Lights on some woody shore; the parched heavens

Rain fire into the molten raging sea!

The smoking trees are strewn upon the shore,

Spoiled of their verdure! O how oft have they

Defied the storm that howled o’er their heads!

Our fathers, sweating, lean on their spears, and view

The mighty dead: giant bodies, streaming blood,

Dread visages, frowning in silent death!

 

Further Reading

·         Historia Brittonum (History of the Britons) by Nennius (828 CE)

·         Historia Regum Britanniae (History of the Kings of Britain) by Geoffrey of Monmouth (1136 CE)

·         Roman de Brut by Wace (ca. 1155 CE)

·         Brut by Layamon (ca. 1190-1215 CE)

·         Brutus the Trojan, Founder of the British Empire: An Epic Poem by Hildebrand Jacob (1735 CE)

 


Friday, September 9, 2022

Special Tribute to Queen Elizabeth II (1926-2022)

Hello everyone – 

In this edition of Quotemail, I would like to pay tribute to Queen Elizabeth II, whose death yesterday has reverberated all around the world. In her memory, I am presenting a trio of classic poems that celebrate Britain’s amazing history and the lives of two of its most famous queens: Boudicca (fl. 1st century CE) and Elizabeth I (reigned 1558-1603).

 

“Puck’s Song”

By Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

 

See you the ferny ride that steals

Into the oak-woods far?

O that was whence they hewed the keels

That rolled to Trafalgar.

 

And mark you where the ivy clings

To Bayham's moldering walls?

O there we cast the stout railings

That stand around St. Paul's.

 

See you the dimpled track that runs

All hollow through the wheat?

O that was where they hauled the guns

That smote King Philip's fleet.

 

(Out of the Weald, the secret Weald,

Men sent in ancient years,

The horse-shoes red at Flodden Field,

The arrows at Poitiers!)

 

See you our little mill that clacks,

So busy by the brook?

She has ground her corn and paid her tax

Ever since Domesday Book.

 

See you our stilly woods of oak,

And the dread ditch beside?

O that was where the Saxons broke

On the day that Harold died.

 

See you the windy levels spread

About the gates of Rye?

O that was where the Northmen fled,

When Alfred's ships came by.

 

See you our pastures wide and lone,

Where the red oxen browse?

O there was a City thronged and known,

Ere London boasted a house.

 

And see you, after rain, the trace

Of mound and ditch and wall?

O that was a Legion's camping-place,

When Caesar sailed from Gaul.

 

And see you marks that show and fade,

Like shadows on the Downs?

O they are the lines the Flint Men made,

To guard their wondrous towns.

 

Trackway and Camp and City lost,

Salt Marsh where now is corn-

Old Wars, old Peace, old Arts that cease,

And so was England born.

 

She is not any common Earth,

Water or wood or air,

But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye,

Where you and I will fare.

 


“Boadicea: An Ode”

By William Cowper (1731-1800)

 

When the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods,

Sought, with an indignant mien,

Counsel of her country's gods,

 

Sage beneath a spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief;

Every burning word he spoke

Full of rage, and full of grief.

 

“Princess! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,

'Tis because resentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

 

"Rome shall perish—write that word

In the blood that she has spilt;

Perish, hopeless and abhorred,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

 

“Rome, for empire far renowned,

Tramples on a thousand states;

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground—

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

 

“Other Romans shall arise,

Heedless of a soldier's name;

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize—

Harmony the path to fame.

 

“Then the progeny that springs

From the forests of our land,

Armed with thunder, clad with wings,

Shall a wider world command.

 

“Regions Caesar never knew

Thy posterity shall sway,

Where his eagles never flew,

None invincible as they.”

 

Such the bard's prophetic words,

Pregnant with celestial fire,

Bending, as he swept the chords

Of his sweet but awful lyre.

 

She, with all a monarch's pride,

Felt them in her bosom glow;

Rushed to battle, fought, and died;

Dying, hurled them at the foe.

 

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,

Heav'n awards the vengeance due;

Empire is on us bestowed,

Shame and ruin wait for you.

 


“In Honor of That High and Mighty Princess, Queen Elizabeth”

By Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672)

 

Proem.

Although great Queen, thou now in silence lie,

Yet thy loud Herald Fame, doth to the sky

Thy wondrous worth proclaim, in every clime,

And so has vowed, whilst there is world or time.

So great’s thy glory, and thine excellence,

The sound thereof raps every human sense

That men account it no impiety

To say thou wert a fleshly Deity.

Thousands bring offerings (though out of date)

Thy world of honors to accumulate.

‘Mongst hundred Hecatombs of roaring Verse,

‘Mine bleating stands before thy royal Hearse.

Thou never didst, nor canst thou now disdain,

T’ accept the tribute of a loyal Brain.

Thy clemency did yerst esteem as much

The acclamations of the poor, as rich,

Which makes me deem, my rudeness is no wrong,

Though I resound thy greatness ‘mongst the throng.

 

The Poem.

No Phoenix Pen, nor Spenser’s Poetry,

No Speed’s, nor Camden’s learned History;

Eliza’s works, wars, praise, can e’re compact,

The World’s the Theater where she did act.

No memories, nor volumes can contain,

The nine Olympiads of her happy reign,

Who was so good, so just, so learned, so wise,

From all the Kings on earth she won the prize.

Nor say I more than truly is her due.

Millions will testify that this is true.

She hath wiped off the’ aspersion of her Sex,

That women wisdom lack to play the Rex.

Spain’s Monarch says not so, not yet his Host:

She taught them better manners to their cost.

The Salic Law had not in force now been,

If France had ever hoped for such a Queen.

But can you Doctors now this point dispute,

She’s argument enough to make you mute,

Since first the Sun did run, his ne’er runned race,

And earth had twice a year, a new old face;

Since time was time, and man unmanly man,

Come shew me such a Phoenix if you can.

Was ever people better ruled than hers?

Was ever Land more happy, freed from stirs?

Did ever wealth in England so abound?

Her Victories in foreign Coasts resound?

Ships more invincible than Spain’s, her foe

She racked, she sacked, she sunk his Armadoe.

Her stately Troops advanced to Lisbon’s wall,

Don Anthony in’s right for to install.

She frankly helped Franks’ (brave) distressed King,

The States united now her fame do sing.

She their Protectrix was, they well do know,

Unto our dread Virago, what they owe.

Her Nobles sacrificed their noble blood,

Nor men, nor coin she shaped, to do them good.

The rude untamed Irish she did quell,

And Tiron bound, before her picture fell.

Had ever Prince such Counsellors as she?

Her self Minerva caused them so to be.

Such Soldiers, and such Captains never seen,

As were the subjects of our (Pallas) Queen:

Her Sea-men through all straits the world did round,

Terra incognitæ might know her sound.

Her Drake came laded home with Spanish gold,

Her Essex took Cadiz, their Herculean hold.

But time would fail me, so my wit would too,

To tell of half she did, or she could do.

Semiramis to her is but obscure;

More infamy than fame she did procure.

She placed her glory but on Babel’s walls,

World's wonder for a time, but yet it falls.

Fierce Tomris (Cyrus’ Heads-man, Scythians’ Queen)

Had put her Harness off, had she but seen

Our Amazon i’ the’ Camp at Tilbury,

(Judging all valor, and all Majesty)

Within that Princess to have residence,

And prostrate yielded to her Excellence.

Dido first Foundress of proud Carthage walls

(Who living consummates her Funerals),

A great Eliza, but compared with ours,

How vanisheth her glory, wealth, and powers.

Proud profuse Cleopatra, whose wrong name,

Instead of glory, proved her Country’s shame:

Of her what worth in Story’s to be seen,

But that she was a rich Egyptian Queen.

Zenobia, potent Empress of the East,

And of all these without compare the best

(Whom none but great Aurelius could quell)

Yet for our Queen is no fit parallel:

She was a Phoenix Queen, so shall she be,

Her ashes not revived more Phoenix she.

Her personal perfections, who would tell,

Must dip his Pen i’ the’ Heliconian Well,

Which I may not, my pride doth but aspire

To read what others write and then admire.

Now say, have women worth, or have they none?

Or had they some, but with our Queen is’t gone?

Nay Masculines, you have thus taxed us long,

But she, though dead, will vindicate our wrong.

Let such as say our sex is void of reason

Know ‘tis a slander now, but once was treason.

But happy England, which had such a Queen,

O happy, happy, had those days still been,

But happiness lies in a higher sphere.

Then wonder not, Eliza moves not here.

Full fraught with honor, riches, and with days,

She set, she set, like Titan in his rays.

No more shall rise or set such glorious Sun,

Until the heaven’s great revolution:

If then new things, their old form must retain,

Eliza shall rule Albian once again.

 

Her Epitaph.

Here sleeps T H E Queen, this is the royal bed

O’ the’ Damask Rose, sprung from the white and red,

Whose sweet perfume fills the all-filling air,

This Rose is withered, once so lovely fair:

On neither tree did grow such Rose before,

The greater was our gain, our loss the more.

 

Another.

Here lies the pride of Queens, pattern of Kings:

So blaze it fame, here’s feathers for thy wings.

Here lies the envied, yet unparalleled Prince,

Whose living virtues speak (though dead long since).

If many worlds, as that fantastic framed,

In every one, be her great glory famed.

 


Requiescat in pace, Elizabetha II, Regina Britanniae.

 

Until next time –

Rob

 

Tuesday, September 6, 2022

#WingedWordsWindsday: 2022/09/07 -- Welcoming the Harvest Moon!

 

WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 1, No. 45: September 7, 2022


 



 


Welcoming the Harvest Moon in Poetry & Prose

 


Editor’s Note

This week, we salute the Full Harvest Moon on Saturday, September 10 with an unpublished essay of mine and a selection of poems about the harvest season, which is beginning now across the American Midwest.

 


“Autumn Reflections”

By Rob Chappell, M.A.

(Unpublished Article from September 2009)

                In November 2005, during the University’s Fall Break, I had the opportunity to revisit my elementary school in Bethalto, Illinois. Because of all the fond memories that I have associated with it, autumn was a great time of year for me to revisit my first Alma Mater. I had a delightful and surprising visit: delightful because I got to reconnect with a couple of my veteran teachers again, and surprising because the school is flourishing today even more so than when I was enrolled there in the 1970s.

 

The Great Seal of Bethalto, Illinois, where the Editor attended elementary school from 1973-1980. (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

                When I was growing up in suburban southwest Illinois, the autumn season was a time of great excitement and anticipation. Even though my summer months were filled with all the freedom and adventure that children longed for during the school year, returning to my elementary school in early autumn was always a pleasure because my school days were perennially edutaining. As our class moved up through the ranks from kindergarten through the sixth grade, we learned about the three R’s (along with the sciences and the arts) from teachers who sang, played the piano, and strummed their guitars (with plenty of songs by Peter, Paul, and Mary!).

                We had many activities to look forward to during the fall term. Field trips to the local apple orchard and pumpkin patch; stories and songs about Johnny Appleseed; trick-or-treating for UNICEF; classroom parties to celebrate various autumn holidays; the annual chili supper; and making crafts for the holiday bazaar all combined to create an atmosphere charged with youthful energy and enthusiasm. The brisk autumn breezes, the falling multicolored leaves, and foreshortened daylight hours only added to the numinosity of the season.

                Everyone’s favorite part of the school day was the story time in early afternoon. After we had finished lunch and played outside in the autumn sunshine during the noon recess, our teachers would read aloud to us from classic children’s books by L. Frank Baum, Astrid Lindgren, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and many more. During the fall term, our teachers also gave us proverbs to memorize and poems to recite. One such poem that we learned has remained a favorite of mine through the years:

 

“Leaves” (Anonymous)

 

The leaves had a wonderful frolic.

They danced to the wind’s loud song.

They whirled, and they floated, and scampered.

They circled and flew along.

 

The Moon saw the little leaves dancing.

Each looked like a small brown bird.

The Man in the Moon smiled and listened,

And this is the song he heard.

 

“The North Wind is calling, is calling,

And we must whirl round and round,

And then, when our dancing is ended,

We’ll make a warm quilt for the ground.”

 

                To conclude, here’s a favorite song from my elementary school days, which my classmates and I enjoyed singing in the fall of the year. It was prominently featured in several episodes of Little House in the Prairie, one of the most popular TV series of the 1970s – and a fan favorite at my school!

 

“Bringing in the Sheaves”

By Knowles Shaw (1834-1878)

"He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with him." – Psalm 126:6 (KJV)

 

1. Sowing in the morning, sowing seeds of kindness,

Sowing in the noontide and the dewy eve;

Waiting for the harvest, and the time of reaping,

We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

 

Refrain:

Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves,

We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves,

Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves,

We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

 

2. Sowing in the sunshine, sowing in the shadows,

Fearing neither clouds nor winter's chilling breeze;

By and by the harvest, and the labor ended,

We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

 

(Refrain)

 

3. Going forth with weeping, sowing for the Master,

Though the loss sustained our spirit often grieves;

When our weeping's over, He will bid us welcome,

We shall come rejoicing, bringing in the sheaves.

 

(Refrain)

 

An Australian wheat field, which reminds the Editor of how a student teacher, trained in his kindergarten class under his teacher, Mrs. Meyer, later traveled to Australia to continue her training in the Sydney school district. (Photo Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 

Happy Fall, y’all! 😊

 

 

“Harvest Time”

By John Jay Chapman (1862-1933)

 

Behold, the harvest is at hand;

And thick on the encircling hills

The sheaves like an encampment stand,

Making a martial fairy-land

That half the landscape fills.

The plains in colors brightly blent

Are burnished by the standing grain

That runs across a continent.

In sheets of gold or silver stain

Or red as copper from the mine,

The oats, the barley, and the buckwheat shine.

 

Autumn has pitched his royal tent,

And set his banner in the field;

Where blazes every ornament

That beamed in an heraldic shield.

He spreads his carpets from the store

Of stuffs the richest burghers wore,

When velvet-robed, and studded o'er

With gems, they faced their Emperor.

 

A wind is in the laughing grain

That bends to dodge his rough caress,

Knowing the rogue will come again

To frolic with its loveliness.

And in the highways drifts a stream

Of carts, of cattle, and of men;

While scythes in every meadow gleam,

And Adam sweats again.

 

In the young orchard forms are seen

With throats thrown open to the breeze,

To reap the rye that lies between;

And sickles hang on apple-trees,

Half hidden in the glossy leaves,

And pails beside the reapers lie;

While sturdy yokels toss the sheaves,

And hats are cocked and elbows ply,

And blackbirds rise to cloud the sky

In swarms that chatter as they fly.

 

From field to field each shady lane

Is strown and traced with wisps of hay,

Where gates lie open to the wain

That creaks upon its toiling way.

And little children, dumb with pride,

Upon the rocking mountain ride,

While anxious parents warn;

And farm-boys guide the lazy team

Till it shall stand beneath the beam

That spans the gaping barn.

 

The harvest to its cavern sinks,

While shafts of sunlight probe the chinks

And fumes of incense rise.

Then, as the farmers turn the latch,

Good-natured Autumn smiles to watch

The triumph in their eyes.

His gifts, from many a groaning load,

Are heaved and packed, and wheeled and stowed

By gnomes that hoard the prize.

The grist of a celestial mill,

Which man has harnessed to his will,

In one bright torrent falls to fill

The greedy granaries.

 

Beneath that annual rain of gold

Kingdoms arise, expand, decay;

Philosophers their mind unfold

And poets sing, and pass away.

Forever turns the winnowing fan:

It runs with an eternal force,

As run the planets in their course

Behind the life of man.

Little we heed that silent power,

Save as the gusty chaff is whirled,

When Autumn triumphs for an hour,

And spills his riches on the world.

 

“September”

By Ellen P. Allerton (1835-1893)

 

    'Tis autumn in our northern land.

    The summer walks a queen no more;

    Her scepter drops from out her hand;

    Her strength is spent, her passion o'er.

    On lake and stream, on field and town,

    The placid sun smiles calmly down.

 

    The teeming earth its fruit has borne;

    The grain fields lie all shorn and bare;

    And where the serried ranks of corn

    Wave proudly in the summer air,

    And bravely tossed their yellow locks,

    Now thickly stands the bristling shocks.

 

    On sunny slope, on crannied wall

    The grapes hang purpling in the sun;

    Down to the turf the brown nuts fall,

    And golden apples, one by one.

    Our bins run o'er with ample store—

    Thus autumn reaps what summer bore.

 

    The mill turns by the waterfall;

    The loaded wagons go and come;

    All day I hear the teamster's call,

    All day I hear the threshers hum;

    And many a shout and many a laugh

    Comes breaking through the clouds of chaff.

 

    Gay, careless sounds of homely toil!

    With mirth and labor closely bent

    The weary tiller of the soil

    Wins seldom wealth, but oft content.

    'Tis better still if he but knows

    What sweet, wild beauty round him glows.

 

    The brook glides toward the sleeping lake—

    Now babbling over sinning stones;

    Now under clumps of bush and brake,

    Hushing its brawl to murmuring tones;

    And now it takes its winding path

    Through meadows green with aftermath.

 

    The frosty twilight early falls,

    But household fires burn warm and red.

    The cold may creep without the walls,

    And growing things lie stark and dead—

    No matter, so the hearth be bright

    When household faces meet to-night.

 

“The Harvest Moon”

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

 

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes

And roofs of villages, on woodland crests

And their aerial neighborhoods of nests

Deserted, on the curtained window-panes

Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes

And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!

Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,

With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!

All things are symbols: the external shows

Of Nature have their image in the mind,

As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;

The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,

Only the empty nests are left behind,

And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

 

The Moon, as photographed by the Lunar Reconnaissance Orbiter (LRO). (Photo Credit: NASA – Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)