Of all the lovely seasons of the year,
None is so full of majesty as this,
When red October, like a king of old—
As wise as rich, and generous as wise—
Smiles on the untaxed garners of the land.
The fields lie cleared and brown; and all the woods
Gleam with a mellow splendour, where the gold
Vies with the purple and the crimson glory,—
The sunset of the year. Whence soon shall follow
The gusty twilight of November days;
Then the dull, rainy eve, till Winter comes,
Like a white moonlight night, and shuts the scene
With his pervading snow. The prairie grass
Sways, seethes, and dryly rustles in the air—
A harvest sound, where only fire shall reap;
And over all an azure mist is spread,
Silent and dreamy, where the autumn sun
Rolls flushed and large; and, through the smoky sky,
The airy eagle, like a pirate bark,
Sails, tacks, and veers, and looks abroad for prey.
Now that the heavier tasks are done, the woods
Ring and re-echo, and the cabin walls
Are coated o'er with furry skins, to dry;
While oft the eve, beside the blazing fire,
Beholds the moulding of the murderous balls.
But, now, what means this early morning stir,
This general voice, and merriment abroad?
On restive steeds the assembled hunters mount;
The powder-oxhorn at each girdle hangs,
Swung like the forest-bugle worn of old.
There weighs the laden pouch; and, in the belt,
The smaller fire-arms slant; while, in the hand,
The polished rifle gleams, and coils of rope
Hang at the saddle-bow,—a lasso rude.
And lo! the cavalcade across the stream
Dashes, with shouts, toward the prairie lands!
O'er the far plains, in dim and dusky lines,
Moving like wave on wave, their sight discerns,
Or fancies it discerns, the bison herd
Which roams the vernal sea; and, like a crew
That notes on the horizon, vague, remote,
Their giant prey, which spouts the brine in air,
And from the vessel drops, in venturous boats,
Striking abroad upon the billowy deep—
The pioneers sweep up against the wind,
Spreading as they approach, to circumvent,
That each may choose his victim from the flock,
And, as he passes, send the bolt of death.
Thus speed they on, with weapons grasped secure;
And near and near—more cautious as they near—
Widening the snary crescent of their line—
Till lo! the bearded patriarch of the herd
Exalts his front, and gives the quick alarm!
A sea of heads and horns is in the air;
And, swift as yesty waves before the gale,
Sweeps the full tribe, with their innumerous hoofs
Making continuous shudder in the ground,
Loud and tremendous, as when through the cane
Roars the tornado! Now the chase begins;
And, presently, the vollied rifles ring,
While here and there the dying monster drops;
Or, wounded, leaves behind the sanguine trail,
Till, fainter and more faint, he staggers, sinks,
While his pursuer tracks his flying mate.
Or see yon giant, where he stands at bay,—
The flashing eye-balls and the foaming mouth,—
The foam half crimson! From his fated side
The red stream pours, and still he bravely fronts
The assailing hunter, thrusting left and right,
And oft the wary charger, with his rider,
Darts from the plunging horns; and, as he fights,
He feels the numbing pain within his breast,
The leaden foe his fury cannot reach!
Still he resists; and slowly fails and fails—
His eyes grow filmy, and his sight is dim—
Sullen, from side to side, the great bulk sways—
The wide plain reels around him, and he falls,
And lifeless lies the hero of the herd!
What though the muse attempt the murderous scene,
Her spirit finds small pleasure in the song,
And shrinks before the vision she has drawn;
The sounds grate harshly, and seem out of tune,
Jarring against each other. Rather far
Her eye adventurous sweeps the distant hill,
And follows Arthur, where, with glittering hoofs,
His charger o'er the billows of the plain
Mounts and descends, to take the prairie-steed
Grazing among its fellows. The wild group,
With nostrils wide, soon note the scented air;
And o'er the ridge the unshod coursers speed,
Giving their streaming manes unto the wind,
Like that mad team which charioted the sun,
Flying afar, eccentric, unrestrained,
With Phaëton behind. In hot pursuit
The guided charger sweeps, and, taking oft
A shorter course direct, still intercepts;
And, straining every muscle, nears and nears,
Until the fatal cord is sped, and falls,
And the wild creature feels the tightening snare,
And yields at last unto the lariat curb;
Then, led in triumph to its captor's friends,
Stands with wide eyes of wonder. When the sun
Pitches his blazing camp along the west,
Following their lengthening shadows, stretching home,
The laden hunters ride; and in the dusk
Behold their fire-lit windows, like the stars,
Smile in the darkening east. The plain is past;
Their doors receive them; and throughout the eve,
Beside the autumn fire, sit gray-haired men,
And maids, and matrons, and the wondering young,
Listening the marvellous history of the day,
Where oft the shadowy people on the wall
Leap up, and clap their visionary hands.
Again the pictured bison toss away,
Shouldering o'er tangled grass—again the chase—
Again the bleeding giant fights and dies.
Musing and marvelling Master Ethan sits,
While o'er his chair Olivia leans, and hears
The glowing language which her lover breathes;
And when again the lariat takes the steed,
And the wild creature struggles with the noose,
Her wonder half to chastening pity melts.
So great the pleasure of the eventful time,
Each sighs to think of those, left far behind,
Who dream beside their tame ancestral hearths,
Dozing monotonous lives away, and longs
To pour into their ears the exciting theme,
And woo them to the West. Here, drawn apart,
Pale Amy listens, mourning in her soul,
Thinking of one who also, 'mong the rest,
Might have repeated to her charmed ear
The wild exploit; and, mid the smiles of all,
Returned the long-praised hero of the chase.
But hark, the song awakes the shadowy eve:

“Form the ring, and pile the fire;
Swell the chorus, like a choir,
While the minstrel wakes his lyre,
Bound with garlands never sere.
And, like holy stars arisen
From their orient blue prison,
Joy shall mount, and Peace shall listen,
While the social hearth shall glisten,
On the newly-found frontier.

Let no dull regret remind us
Of the homes which lie behind us,
Or the tear of memory blind us
To the world of beauty here:
Let the past retain its pleasure,
While the present, without measure,
Opes the promised land of treasure,
Where wide Freedom's dome of azure
Overbends the far frontier.

Soon the forest, like the bison,
Shall enrich the land it dies on,
And the ground, its shade now lies on,
Smile in harvests broad and clear.
Then the gloom these lands inherit,
Like a shadow from the spirit
When the world rewards its merit,
Shall depart—the sun shall scare it—
From the bountiful frontier.

Then, alone, within the furrow,
Or in woodland alleys narrow,
Shall some flint-head of the arrow
Speak of tribes long sped from here;
Or the children, while they're playing,
Find the stone-axe in their straying,
Or the lone wigwam decaying—
The last fading signs betraying
Who once ruled the dark frontier.

Round our barks yon stream shall ripple,
On yon bank rise church and steeple,
Where the bell to busy people
Shall ring, hourly, silver-clear.
And the eagle, sailing airy,
With his downward glances wary,
Shall behold the swift scene vary
Over forest, stream and prairie,
Wondering at the changed frontier.

And his wings shall mount, affrighted,
O'er the scene so strangely lighted,
And to western wilds, benighted,
Take his marvelling career;
Yet, before his flight he urges,
From the clearing's noisy verges,
He shall see the silvery surges
On the mill-wheel, hear the forges
Which shall wake the far frontier.

And mid scenes of peaceful culture,
Shall the dove succeed the vulture,
E'er the pioneer's sepulture
Tolls the bell or starts the tear.
And our State from its probation,
Soon shall take its glorious station
In the union of the nation,
And the coming generation
Westward seek a new frontier.”

The song is done. Lo, through the casement seen,
A marvellous light along the southern sky
Flames with an angry hue—as in the east,
Oft, o'er the full and yet unrisen moon,
The strange light blots through veils of evening-mist—
While, like an eagle's shadow, o'er the plain
The frequent deer flies north. The hungry wolf
Forgets his prey, and prowls into the woods;
The frighted steed, with many an unknown shape,
Sweeps past beneath the stars—as when at sea
The speeding tribes proclaim the foe behind.
And still the great light, on the prairie's verge,
Springs like the boreal glow in winter seen,—
A spectral, melancholy dawn: as if
The south would fling the north its splendours back;
Or earth, like some great vessel sideward thrown,
Had far careened, and from the tropics brought
The red, unnatural morn. And, thicker still,
Pour on the heterogeneous herds. And now
A roar sweeps wide upon the sultry air—
As when the wind, wet with Niagara's mist,
Bears the perpetual thunder leagues away—
It nears and nears. “The prairie is on fire!”
And the announcement flies from door to door,
Swift as from tent to tent a call to arms,
When down the distance pours the assailing foe—
“The prairie is on fire!” And on the wind
The red tornado spreads its blighting wings—
Fearful and splendid in magnificent rage—
Chasing the frantic dwellers of the plain,
Flying in reckless terror. Such the scene—
Abhorrent, awful, wonderful, sublime—
Which passed o'er Milton's inward sight, what time
He saw the infernal lake, when from the fire
The shadowy demons, to their master's call,
Sped in a cloud confused. Around the homes,
Pitched on the prairie's side, fear rules the scene;
And consternation throbs in every breast,
And stupifies the needed ready mind;
Till one, with cooler presence than the rest,
Grasps the great blazing brand, and wildly flies,
And streaks the grass with flame. The powdery mass
Flashes and roars; and, with its mane of fire,
Drives left and right; and, flickering to the skies,
Darts o'er the plain to west, and north, and south
And, with the other merging, leaves the space
Where stand the anxious pioneers agaze,
While many a prayer of thankfulness ascends.