Indian Summer.

Is it not our bounden duty
    Harsh and bitter thoughts to quell,
    Wild, ambitions schemes repel,
And to revel in the beauty
    Of this Indian summer spell,
    Bathing forest, field, and dell
    As with radiance immortelle?

None can paint like nature dying;
    Whose dissolving struggle lent
    Wealth of hues so richly blent
That, through weary years of trying,
    Artist skill pre-eminent
    May not copy or invent
    Such divine embellishment.

Knights of old from castles riding
    Scattered largesse as they went
    Which, like manna heaven-sent,
Cheered the poverty-abiding;
    But, when 'neath "that low green tent"
    Passed the hand benevolent,
    Sad were they and indigent.

Monarchs, too, have thus delighted
    Giving unto courtiers free,
    Costly robes and tinselry;
And, as royal guests, invited
    Them to sumptuous halls of glee,
    Banqueting and minstrelsy,
    Bacchus holding sovereignty.

Then, perchance, in mood capricious
    Stripped and scorned and turned away
    Those who tasted for a day
Pleasure sweet and food delicious;
    Nor might any say them nay -
    Lest his head the forfeit pay
    Who a king dared disobey.

But our own benignant Giver,
    Almoner impartial, true,
    Constantly doth gifts renew;
Nor would fitfully deliver
    Aught unto the chosen few,
    But to all the wide world through,
    Who admire his wonders, too.

Never shall the heart be poorer,
    Never languish in despair,
    That such affluence may share;
For than this is nothing surer -
    He hath said, and will prepare
    In those realms of upper air
    Glories infinitely fair.