SEPTEMBER woods are fresh and green,
September woods are bright,
September's early morning glows
With its encrimsoning light;
O'er upland slopes a dewy haze
In vapory beauty clings,
Soft as the film that fancy's veil
O'er earthly vision flings.
Serene afar the purple'cones
Of the Green Mountain stand,
Like arm'd and stalwart sentinels
Guarding a sleeping land;
Serene and smooth Champlain's blue lake
Spreads out its dimpled sheet,
Washing its wood-engirdled shore,
Bathing the mountain feet.
In shallow cove, near grassy bank,
The pickerel-weeds grow green and rank;
In hazel-girded, crescent bays
Sprinkled with isles, an endless maze,
The yellow-tinted pickerel
Lie bidden, motionless and still;
The dorsal fin, the forked tail
Scarce stir the waters, clear as air,
But jaws are open to assail
And glassy eyes all murderous stare.
But when the small fry of the hike,
The miunow and the shiner bright,
Across the limpid surface break,
Shooting like pearly sparks of light,
Then, as an Indian tiger grim
Rends autler'd stag in jungles dim,
So doth the water-tyrant slay
The helpless, unresisting prey.
McLellan, Isaac. Poems of the Rod and Gun. New York: Henry Thorpe, 1886.
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