|line||Now had the season returned, when the nights grow colder and longer,|
And the retreating sun the sign of the Scorpion enters.
|150||Birds of passage sailed through the leaden air, from the ice-bound,|
Desolate northern bays to the shores of tropical islands.
Harvests were gathered in; and wild with the winds of September
Wrestled the trees of the forest, as Jacob of old with the angel.
All the signs foretold a winter long and inclement.
|155||Bees, with prophetic instinct of want, had hoarded their honey|
Till the hives overflowed; and the Indian hunters asserted
Cold would the winter be, for thick was the fur of the foxes.
Such was the advent of autumn. Then followed that beautiful season,
Called by the pious Acadian peasants the Summer of All-Saints!
|160||Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light; and the landscape|
Lay as if new-created in all the freshness of childhood.
Peace seemed to reign upon earth, and the restless heart of the ocean
Was for a moment consoled. All sounds were in harmony blended.
Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farm-yards,
|165||Whir of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons,|
All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun
Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him;
While arrayed in its robes of russet and scarlet and yellow,
Bright with the sheen of the dew, each glittering tree of the forest
|170||Flashed like the plane-tree the Persian adorned with mantles and jewels.|