Oh! who can sing the glories of the woods, When Indian Summer, like a death-smile, rests On autumn’s sallow cheek too soon to fade. In ages past, when thou didst gently come, “With nights of frost, and noons of sultry heat, When skies were blue as highly tempered steel, And rivers clear as crystal, and the mist Upon the mountains hung its silver veil; When o’er the grass a fairy net-work spread, And naught was green except the mountain pine, The willow, and the bullrush by the brook”— Our fathers feared—for then amid the wilds, Called by the wampum-belt of varied hue, The Indian warriors built their council-fire, And in the war-dance joined with hellish rite, Till morning broke upon the dusky woods. Then, at the hour when mortals soundest slept, And nature was at rest, they sallied forth, Armed with the hatchet and the scalping-knife, And trusty rifle, whose report was death. The sleeping father woke to hear the cry Of butchered wife, and infant rudely torn From her clasped arms, to feel the war-club’s power. One look he gave, and on his silvery head The hatchet fell, and loosed the flood of life, Then sinking down in death’s cold senseless sleep, Added fresh fuel to the crackling flames That spread around his lonely sylvan cot, And lit, with hateful glare, the moaning woods. Next morn the wandering hunter marked the waste, And found amid the ashes, human bones, An axe, a child’s steel rattle, and a lock Of woman’s golden hair, still wet with blood. — The sun in mellow light sleeps on the hills, The lazy river rolls in silence on, The woods keep Sabbath, till the deep-mouthed bay Of wandering fox-hound breaks upon the ear; Or from the top of an old chestnut falls, The tempting nut the startled squirrel drops, Parting the fading leaves with pattering sound; Or on the rotten log beside the stile, The busy partridge beats her woodland drum. The frost has tipt the trees with lovelier tints Than pencil ever gave to forest scene; There, green and gold in various hues combine, Spotted with crimson where the maple stands, And when the sun upon the hoar-frost shines, The foliage sparkles, as though crystals hung On every leaf, and trembled in the air. The eye now penetrates the half-clad trees, And spies the squirrel in his leafy house, Or marks upon the limb the wish-ton-wish, Who rests by day, that he may sweeter sing His song at night, beside the cottage gate. The thistle-seed, with wing of silver down, Floats in the air, and flashes in the sun. The dusky worm that feasted on the leaf In the green spring-time, weaves his curious shroud, And fastening it by thread of minute size, To the tall poplar swings himself to sleep. Type of the resurrection! lo, he hangs Between the mortal and the spirit-land, Till called by God, through Nature’s changeless laws, He starts a winged creature clad in light,