Poems (Holford)/November
For works with similar titles, see November.
NOVEMBER.
Sad wears the hour!—heavy and drearCreeps, with slow pace, the waning year,And sullen, sullen, heaves the blastIts 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 rememberThat grim precursor of the storm,The generous Briton's foe, dull, scowling, dark November! O'er the fallen leaves he takes his wayWhispering, 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 sideLurk 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 frownLove, sickening, sees his myrtle crownFade, 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 brownDroop, as thy dun cloud sails the sky,Why do thy hours o'er mortals flowLagging and sullenly?Seldom, dark Month, thy form is seenTo wear December's warrior mien;Still does thy scanty verdure grow,Unburied yet by winter's snow, all outThe storms, which soon shall burst amain,With all their winds, a boisterous train.But menace now—yet who but sighsFor louder winds, and wilder skies?Who but looks onward with desiredTo the clustering group, and social fire? Then get thee hence—tread thou the pathWhich 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 tombLow'rs thy dark sky with denser gloom?O'er yon deserted, lonely grave,Thy rushing winds more shrilly rave,There thick descends thy yellow leafIn whirling eddies from on high,And in the sudden sob of griefThy 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 wayStill led thro' paths of sorrow,Still dark and joyless rose his day,Still did he fear to-morrow!November low'r'd, the moaning windBreath'd sadness on a sadden'd mind!Why did he listen, for it toldIn whispers, low, and faint, and cold,Of perish'd hope, of that still sleepWhich never wakes to groan and weep?He heard alas!—And now the gustWails loudly o'er his mouldering dust!
November, Fancy's wayward childSpeaks to thee now,—full well she knowsThat 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!