The winds and waters are in his command, Held as a courser in the rider's hand. He lets them loose, they triumph at his will: He checks their course and all is calm and still. Life's hopes waste all to nothingness away As showers at night wash out the steps of day. * * * * * The tyrant, in his lawless power deterred, Bows before death, tame as a broken sword. One dyeth in his strength and, torn from ease, Groans in death pangs like tempests in the trees. Another from the bitterness of clay Falls calm as storms drop on an autumn day, With noiseless speed as swift as summer light Death slays and keeps her weapons out of sight. The tyrants that do act the God in clay And for earth's glories throw the heavens away, Whose breath in power did like to thunder sear, When anger hurried on the heels of fear, Whose rage planned hosts of murders at a breath-- Here in sound silence sheath their rage in death. Their feet, that crushed down freedom to its grave And felt the very earth they trod a slave, How quiet here they lie in death's cold arms Without the power to crush the feeble worms Who spite of all the dreadful fears they made Creep there to conquer and are not afraid. _Autumn_ Syren of sullen moods and fading hues, Yet haply not incapable of joy, Sweet Autumn! I thee hail With welcome all unfeigned; And oft as morning from her lattice peeps To beckon up the sun, I seek with thee To drink the dewy breath Of fields left fragrant then, In solitudes, where no frequented paths But what thy own foot makes betray thy home, Stealing obtrusive there To meditate thy end: By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks, With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge, Which woo the winds to play, And with them dance for joy; And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods, Where water-lilies spread their oily leaves, On which, as wont, the fly Oft battens in the sun; Where leans the mossy willow half way oer, On which the shepherd crawls astride to throw His angle, clear of weeds That crowd the water's brim; Or crispy hills, and hollows scant of sward, Where step by step the patient lonely boy Hath cut rude flights of stairs To climb their steepy sides; Then track along their feet, grown hoarse with noise, The crawling brook, that ekes its weary speed, And struggles through the weeds With faint and sullen brawl. These haunts I long have favoured, more as now With thee thus wandering, moralizing on, Stealing glad thoughts from grief, And happy, though I sigh. Sweet Vision, with the wild dishevelled hair, And raiment shadowy of each wind's embrace, Fain would I win thine harp To one accordant theme; Now not inaptly craved, communing thus, Beneath the curdled arms of this stunt oak, While pillowed on the grass, We fondly ruminate