’Tis Autumn,—­and Nature the forest has hung
    With arras more gorgeous than ever was flung
    From Gobelin looms,—­all so varied, so rare,
    As never the princeliest palaces were. 
    Soft curtains of haze the far mountains enfold,
    Whose warp is of purple, whose woof is of gold,
    And the sky bends as peacefully, purely above,
    As if earth breathed an atmosphere only of love.

    But thick as white asters in Autumn, are found
    The tents all bestrewing the carpeted ground;
    The din of a camp, with its stir and its strife,
    Its motley and strange, multitudinous life,
    Floats upward along the brown slopes, till it fills
    The echoing hollows afar in the hills.

    ’Tis the twilight of Sabbath,—­and sweet through the air,
    Swells the blast of the bugle, that summons to prayer: 
    The signal is answered, and soon in the glen
    Sits Colonel Dunbar in the midst of his men.

    The Chaplain advances with reverent face,
    Where lies a felled oak, he has chosen his place;
    On the stump of an ash-tree the Bible he lays,
    And they bow on the grass, as he solemnly prays.

    Underneath thine open sky,
      Father, as we bend the knee,
    May we feel thy presence nigh,
     —­Nothing ’twixt our souls and thee!

    We are weary,—­cares and woes
      Lay their weight on every breast,
    And each heart before thee knows,
      That it sighs for inward rest.

    Thou canst lift this weight away,
      Thou canst bid these sighings cease;
    Thou canst walk these waves and say
      To their restless tossings—­“Peace!”

    We are tempted;—­snares abound,—­
      Sin its treacherous meshes weaves;
    And temptations strew us round,
      Thicker than the Autumn leaves.

    Midst these perils, mark our path,
      Thou who art ‘the life, the way;’
    Rend each fatal wile that hath
      Power to lead our souls astray.

    Prince of Peace! we follow Thee! 
      Plant thy banner in our sight;
    Let thy shadowy legions be
      Guards around our tents to-night.”

    Through the aisles of the forest, far-stretching and dim
    As a cloister’d Cathedral, the notes of a hymn
    Float tenderly upward,—­now soft and now clear,
    As if twilight had silenced its breathing to hear;
    Now swelling, a lofty, triumphant refrain,—­
    Now sobbing itself into sadness again.

    The Bible is opened, and stillness profound
    Broods over the listeners scattered around;
    And warning, and comfort, and blessing, and balm,
    Distil from the beautiful words of the Psalm. 
    Then simply and earnestly pleading,—­his face
    Lit up with persuasive and eloquent grace,
    The Chaplain pours forth, from the warmth of his heart,
    His words of entreaty and truth, ere they part.