Poems (Holford)/November
For works with similar titles, see November.
NOVEMBER.
Sad wears the hour!—heavy and drear
Creeps, with slow pace, the waning year,
And sullen, sullen, heaves the blast
Its deep sighs o'er the lonely waste!
Nature looks pale, and sick, and waning,
And loads the dank air with her hoarse complaining;
'Mid the blue mist stands a dusky form,
I gaze and shudder to remember
That grim precursor of the storm,
The generous Briton's foe, dull, scowling, dark November!
O'er the fallen leaves he takes his way
Whispering, and murmuring themes of sorrow;
He points at the cloud which veils the day,
And smiting his breast, he seems to say,
"It shall burst on thy head to-morrow!"
Then he hints, in deep sepulchral tone,
At the peace which is under the church-yard stone!
Creeps, with slow pace, the waning year,
And sullen, sullen, heaves the blast
Its deep sighs o'er the lonely waste!
Nature looks pale, and sick, and waning,
And loads the dank air with her hoarse complaining;
'Mid the blue mist stands a dusky form,
I gaze and shudder to remember
That grim precursor of the storm,
The generous Briton's foe, dull, scowling, dark November!
O'er the fallen leaves he takes his way
Whispering, and murmuring themes of sorrow;
He points at the cloud which veils the day,
And smiting his breast, he seems to say,
"It shall burst on thy head to-morrow!"
Then he hints, in deep sepulchral tone,
At the peace which is under the church-yard stone!
November, ever by thy side
Lurk wan despair, ungenial pride!
No roses round thy mornings bloom,
And thy eve descends with tenfold gloom,
Gladness, abash'd when thou art nigh,
Enforced heaves a timid sigh;
Lo! blighted by thy withering frown
Love, sickening, sees his myrtle crown
Fade, fall, and change, beneath his eye
To the yellow tint of jealousy,
Then scattered by the winds, dispers'd and trampled lie!
Lurk wan despair, ungenial pride!
No roses round thy mornings bloom,
And thy eve descends with tenfold gloom,
Gladness, abash'd when thou art nigh,
Enforced heaves a timid sigh;
Lo! blighted by thy withering frown
Love, sickening, sees his myrtle crown
Fade, fall, and change, beneath his eye
To the yellow tint of jealousy,
Then scattered by the winds, dispers'd and trampled lie!
November, why does every brown
Droop, as thy dun cloud sails the sky,
Why do thy hours o'er mortals flow
Lagging and sullenly?
Seldom, dark Month, thy form is seen
To wear December's warrior mien;
Still does thy scanty verdure grow,
Unburied yet by winter's snow, all out
The storms, which soon shall burst amain,
With all their winds, a boisterous train.
But menace now—yet who but sighs
For louder winds, and wilder skies?
Who but looks onward with desired
To the clustering group, and social fire?
Then get thee hence—tread thou the path
Which circling months have trod before,
Give way to Winter's honest wrath,
For, grateful that thy reign is o'er,
Welcome the fleecy shower! welcome the whirlwind's roar!
Droop, as thy dun cloud sails the sky,
Why do thy hours o'er mortals flow
Lagging and sullenly?
Seldom, dark Month, thy form is seen
To wear December's warrior mien;
Still does thy scanty verdure grow,
Unburied yet by winter's snow, all out
The storms, which soon shall burst amain,
With all their winds, a boisterous train.
But menace now—yet who but sighs
For louder winds, and wilder skies?
Who but looks onward with desired
To the clustering group, and social fire?
Then get thee hence—tread thou the path
Which circling months have trod before,
Give way to Winter's honest wrath,
For, grateful that thy reign is o'er,
Welcome the fleecy shower! welcome the whirlwind's roar!
November, why o'er yonder tomb
Low'rs thy dark sky with denser gloom?
O'er yon deserted, lonely grave,
Thy rushing winds more shrilly rave,
There thick descends thy yellow leaf
In whirling eddies from on high,
And in the sudden sob of grief
Thy voice mourns hollowly!
Who slumbers there—what silent friend,
That on his chill dank bed thy gather'd woes descend?
He was a man, whose rugged way
Still led thro' paths of sorrow,
Still dark and joyless rose his day,
Still did he fear to-morrow!
November low'r'd, the moaning wind
Breath'd sadness on a sadden'd mind!
Why did he listen, for it told
In whispers, low, and faint, and cold,
Of perish'd hope, of that still sleep
Which never wakes to groan and weep?
He heard alas!—And now the gust
Wails loudly o'er his mouldering dust!
Low'rs thy dark sky with denser gloom?
O'er yon deserted, lonely grave,
Thy rushing winds more shrilly rave,
There thick descends thy yellow leaf
In whirling eddies from on high,
And in the sudden sob of grief
Thy voice mourns hollowly!
Who slumbers there—what silent friend,
That on his chill dank bed thy gather'd woes descend?
He was a man, whose rugged way
Still led thro' paths of sorrow,
Still dark and joyless rose his day,
Still did he fear to-morrow!
November low'r'd, the moaning wind
Breath'd sadness on a sadden'd mind!
Why did he listen, for it told
In whispers, low, and faint, and cold,
Of perish'd hope, of that still sleep
Which never wakes to groan and weep?
He heard alas!—And now the gust
Wails loudly o'er his mouldering dust!
November, Fancy's wayward child
Speaks to thee now,—full well she knows
That fraught for her, with omens wild,
Heavy thy breath's dank vapour blows!
But far beyond thy dusky sky,
Beyond poor Nature, fading fast,
She pierces with confiding eye,
And spies a beacon 'mid the waste!
Speaks to thee now,—full well she knows
That fraught for her, with omens wild,
Heavy thy breath's dank vapour blows!
But far beyond thy dusky sky,
Beyond poor Nature, fading fast,
She pierces with confiding eye,
And spies a beacon 'mid the waste!