When down the zodiacal arch
The summer sun resumes his march,
Descending from the summit high
With eager step he hastens by
The "lordly lion" of July
And clasps the virgin in his arms.
Through all the golden August days
The sun the ardent lover plays,
A captive to her dazzling charms.
But when the harvest time is o'er,
When they gathered grapes perfume the air
And ruddy wine begins to pour,
The god resumes his way once more;
And, weeping in her wild despair,
He leaves the royal virgin there.
What cares he now for Virgo's woes,
As down the starry path he goes
With scornful step, until, at last,
The equinoctial gate is passed?
Two misty columns black with storms,
While overhead there hangs between
A lurid thunder cloud, which forms
The frowning archway of the gate--
The gloomy equinoctial gate,
An evil place for travelers late,
Where envious Libra lurks unseen;
And near the portal lies in wait
September, filled with deadly hate.
With stately step the god draws nigh,
Yet such is his majestic mien,
That whether he shall strike or fly,
The trembling ruffian hardly knows,
As Phoebus through the gateway goes.
But, as the shining form came near,
The wretch's hate subdued his fear,
And, nerving up his arm at length,
He aimed a blow with all his strength
Full at the god as he went by.
In anger Phoebus turned his head--
Away the trembling coward fled.
The god, though smarting with the blow,
Disdains to follow up his foe:
And down the zodiacal path
Pursues his gloomy way in wrath.
Still blacker turn the autumn skies,
and red Antares, evil star,
Points out the place, more fatal far,
Where fell October ambushed lies.
The Sun, as if he scorned his foes,
In pride and glory onward goes.
Not he from deadly Scorpio flies,
Nor pauses he, nor backward turns,
Though redder yet Antares burns,
And darker yet his pathway grows.
Meanwhile October, from his lair,
On Phoebus rushes unaware,
His murderous purpose now confessed,
And smites the sun-god in the breast,
A ghastly wound the villain makes--
With horrid joy his weapon shakes;
And, as he sees the god depart,
His hand upon his bosom pressed,
Believes the blow has reached the heart.
Along his way the sun-god goes,
Unmindful where the path may lead,
While from his breast the life-blood flows.
The clouds around him gather now,
The crown of light fades from his brow.
And soon, advancing 'mid the night,
The Archer on his pallid steed,
With bended bow, appears in sight.
November, bolder than the rest,
Hides not behind the gloomy west:
But, striding right across the path,
Defies the god and scorns his wrath;
And, raising high his frowning crest,
These haughty words to him addressed:
"September and October, both,
You have escaped and still survive;
But I have sworn a deadly oath,
By me you cannot pass alive.
That which I promise I perform.
For I am he who, 'mid the storm,
Rides on the pallid horse of death."
While even thus the spectre spoke,
He drew his arrow to the head--
The god received the fatal stroke,
And at the Archer's feet feel dead.
Soon as the sun's expiring breath
Had vanished in the ether dim,
December came and looked on him;
And looking, not a word he saith,
But o'er the dead doth gently throw
A spangled winding sheet of snow.
And when the winding sheet was placed,
Comes evil Janus, double-faced,
A monster like those seen in sleep.
An old "seafaring man" is he,
As many others understand,
Who carries water from the deep
And pours it out upon the land.
Now February next appears,
With frozen locks and icy tears,
A specter cruel, cold, and dumb,
From polar regions newly come.
These three by turns the body bear
At night along the west, to where
A flickering gleam above the snows
A dim electric radiance throws,
A nebular magnetic light,
Which, flashing upward through the night,
Reveals the vernal equinox,
And him whose potent spell unlocks
The gates of spring.
An evergreen
Close by this spot is blooming seen.
'Tis there they halt amid the snow--
Unlawful 'tis to go farther go--
And, having left their burden there,
They vanish in the midnight air.
Yet on this very night next year
Will this same evil three appear,
And bring along amid the gloom
Another body for the tomb
But still the evergreen shall wave
Above the dark and dismal grave,
For ever there a token sure
That, long as Nature shall endure,
Despite of all the wicked powers
That rule the wintry midnight hours,
The sun shall from the grave arise,
And tread again the summer skies.
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