 | The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson |  |
45
STANZAS WRITTEN IN AUTUMN, 1799.
“Now Autumn hath reviv'd the farmer's hope,
And the rich gifts of Ceres ting'd with gold;
Pleas'd with the bounteous gift,
Each field he views.”
And the rich gifts of Ceres ting'd with gold;
Pleas'd with the bounteous gift,
Each field he views.”
Anon.
Summer's verdure now is fled;
Faded are her fragrant flow'rs;
Savage Autumn strips the bow'rs,
While dull nature hangs her head.
Faded are her fragrant flow'rs;
Savage Autumn strips the bow'rs,
While dull nature hangs her head.
Songs of joy no more are heard
Thro' the winding valley float,
Save the redbreast's grateful note,
Fond, domestic, pleasing bird!
Thro' the winding valley float,
Save the redbreast's grateful note,
Fond, domestic, pleasing bird!
Yet, ere chilling snows decend,
He must quit each well-known wood;
And to hamlets driv'n for food,
Ask of faithless man a friend.
He must quit each well-known wood;
And to hamlets driv'n for food,
Ask of faithless man a friend.
46
Where, beneath the blooming thorn,
Blithe, the milk-maid with her pail,
Listen'd to the rustic's tale,
Softly told at early morn,
Blithe, the milk-maid with her pail,
Listen'd to the rustic's tale,
Softly told at early morn,
Fallen leaves now with'ring lie;
Faded moralists, that teach
Mortals much; tho' void of speech,
For, like them, soon all must die!
Faded moralists, that teach
Mortals much; tho' void of speech,
For, like them, soon all must die!
Deadly blasts now loudly blow,
Telling haggard Winter near;
Whose approach what millions fear,
Sunk by poverty and woe!
Telling haggard Winter near;
Whose approach what millions fear,
Sunk by poverty and woe!
Oh! that pleasure's sparkling train,
Wou'd their false-nam'd joys forbear!
And the gifts of Heaven share,
With each child of want and pain!
Wou'd their false-nam'd joys forbear!
And the gifts of Heaven share,
With each child of want and pain!
Reckless then of fortune's frown,
Man his loud complaints might cease:
Life would be a vale of peace,
Happy state, ah! little known!
Man his loud complaints might cease:
Life would be a vale of peace,
Happy state, ah! little known!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Anderson | |