In vain October wooes her to remain
Within the palace of his scarlet bowers,
Entreats her to forget her heartbreak pain,
And weep no more about her faded flowers.
At last November, like a conqueror, comes
To storm the golden city of his foe;
We hear his rude winds, like the roll of drums,
Bringing their desolation and their woe.
The sunset, like a vast vermilion flood,
Splashes its giant glowing waves on high,
The forest flames with foliage red as blood,
A conflagration sweeping to the sky.
Then all the treasures of that brilliant state
Are gathered in a mighty funeral pyre;
October, like a king resigned to fate,
Dies in his forests, with their sunset fire.
SURVIVALS OF OLD BRITISH BALLADS
BARBARA ALLEN
There was a young man who lived in our town, His given name was William; He was taken sick, and very sick, And death was in his dwelling. It was the merry month of May, When the green buds were swelling, Sweet William on his deathbed lay For the love of Barbara Allen.
