APPLE-GATHERING.

Essex flats are pink with clover,

Kent is crowned with flaunting hops,

Whitely shine the cliffs of Dover,

Yellow wave the Midland crops;

Sussex Downs the flocks grow sleek on,

But, for me, I love to stand

Where the Herefordshire beacon

Watches o'er his orchard land.

Where now sun, now shadow dapples —

As it wavers in the breeze —

Clumps of fresh-complexioned apples

On the heavy-laden trees:

Red and yellow, streaked and hoary,

Russet-coated, pale or brown —

Some are dipped in sunset glory,

And some painted by the dawn.

What profusion, what abundance!

Not a twig but has its fruits;

High in air some in the sun dance,

Some lie scattered near the roots.

These the hasty winds have taken

Are a green, untimely crop;

Those by burly rustics shaken

Fall with loud resounding plop.

In this mellow autumn weather,

Ruddy‘ mid the long green grass,

Heaped-up baskets stand together,

Filled by many a blowsy lass.

Red and yellow, streaked and hoary,

Pile them on the granary floors,

Till the yule-log's flame in glory

Loudly up the chimney roars;

Till gay troops of children, lightly

Tripping in with shouts of glee,

See ripe apples dangling brightly

On the red-lit Christmas-tree.