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.