Autumn (Chivers)
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Farewell! thou dying Year, farewell!
Thy reign is almost o'er;
Fled the freshness of vernal hours,
The glory of thy summer bowers,-
And e'en thy last pale ling'ring flowers
Will soon be here no more!
'Tis sad to see the hues of death
Fast stealing o'er thy bloom,
To hear the fitful Autumn gale
Sweep through the lonely wood and vale,
Breathing its low, prophetic wail,
O'er thy approaching doom!
To me, in every passing breeze,
There is a tone of grief,
Recalling hopes of vanished years,
Now only seem thro' Memory's tears,-
In every falling leaf!
Perhaps there are bright eyes, that weep
To see thee pass away,
Who in thy course, departing year,
Have ne'er beend imm'd by sorrow's tear;
And blest with all of bright and dear,
Would gladly woo thy stay.
But there are some, whose hearts are glad,
Thy darksome reign is o'er,-
Who would not live thine hours again,
For riches of the earth and main;
But joy those days of care and pain,
To them, can come no more.
For thou hast seen the dearest ties
Of earthly feelings broken!
To be renewed, oh! never more,
Unless on that eternal shore,
Where, grief and death forever oe'r,
No parting words are spoken!
Then fare thee well, departing Year!
I would not woo thy stay:
Thy sighing winds breathe of the tomb;
Thy fading roses speak the doom
Of the heart's cherish'd hopes-whose bloom,
Like thine, has passed away!