autumn.
49
No. III. Autumn.
No more is summer's pompous robes before our vision spread,
Her warm and fragrant breath is gone, her beauteous garlands dead,
The luxury of living green she wove the landscape o'er
Has vanished, and the sear leaves fall each blighting breeze before,
And o'er the yellow tinted bower a strange lone light is cast,
Whilst sighs, as if from Nature's heart, fill every mournful blast.
The cot which glimmered through the trees, when summer clothed each bough,
Is plainly on the hill defined, through scanty foliage now;
The grain which waved to summer winds is garnered in the store,
The pasture grounds, now bleak and chill, no lambkins frolic o'er;
The stream, that to its margin flowers sang murmurs soft and low,
Now dark and sullen, rushes on with hoarse impetuous flow;
Pursued by Autumn's moaning gale, the rustling verdure see
Fly o'er the ground, or clustering cling to sheltering stone or tree.
Her warm and fragrant breath is gone, her beauteous garlands dead,
The luxury of living green she wove the landscape o'er
Has vanished, and the sear leaves fall each blighting breeze before,
And o'er the yellow tinted bower a strange lone light is cast,
Whilst sighs, as if from Nature's heart, fill every mournful blast.
The cot which glimmered through the trees, when summer clothed each bough,
Is plainly on the hill defined, through scanty foliage now;
The grain which waved to summer winds is garnered in the store,
The pasture grounds, now bleak and chill, no lambkins frolic o'er;
The stream, that to its margin flowers sang murmurs soft and low,
Now dark and sullen, rushes on with hoarse impetuous flow;
Pursued by Autumn's moaning gale, the rustling verdure see
Fly o'er the ground, or clustering cling to sheltering stone or tree.
