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A DIRGE
Sung to Autumn on the last day of November.
Sad Autumn, adieu! over prostrate November,
Thy snow-shroud descending deep mantles thee o'er,
And o'er thy pale relics looks wintry December,
With barrenness dreary, with icicles hoar.
Thy snow-shroud descending deep mantles thee o'er,
And o'er thy pale relics looks wintry December,
With barrenness dreary, with icicles hoar.
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Oh! cold lies the snow on the plain and the mountain,
And fettered in chains is the sweet-winding rill;
Deserted the valley, and frozen the fountain,
And thro' the lone forest the blast whistles shrill.
And fettered in chains is the sweet-winding rill;
Deserted the valley, and frozen the fountain,
And thro' the lone forest the blast whistles shrill.
'T was but late that I roved by the side of the streamlet,
And listened delighted the chime of its flow;
Or sought far remote from the stir of the hamlet,
The mountain above, or the valley below.
And listened delighted the chime of its flow;
Or sought far remote from the stir of the hamlet,
The mountain above, or the valley below.
For Nature's full cup was o'erflowing in gladness,
And sweet was the song of the bird of the bough,
So pleasingly plaintive, inclining to sadness;
And soft was the lock-lifting breeze to my brow.
And sweet was the song of the bird of the bough,
So pleasingly plaintive, inclining to sadness;
And soft was the lock-lifting breeze to my brow.
But now while those days of enchantment reviewing,
(For in my mind's eye they forever appear,)
I shrink at the prospect before me ensuing—
For oh, of myself what a symbol is here!
(For in my mind's eye they forever appear,)
I shrink at the prospect before me ensuing—
For oh, of myself what a symbol is here!
'T is not for thee, Autumn, I make lamentation,
For time shall renew all thy charms to thee yet;
But oh, for myself!—'t is a sad contemplation—
In Death's dreary winter my autumn must set!
For time shall renew all thy charms to thee yet;
But oh, for myself!—'t is a sad contemplation—
In Death's dreary winter my autumn must set!
Yet when the chill blasts of misfortune have left me
And cold frosts of life that embittered my joy
When death with his unsparing hand has bereft me
Of trifles that please and of pleasures that cloy—
And cold frosts of life that embittered my joy
When death with his unsparing hand has bereft me
Of trifles that please and of pleasures that cloy—
Still sweet be the thought that thou, Autumn, shall mourn me,
And yearly thy pilgrimage pay to my grave;
While all the sad weeds that enwrap and adorn thee
Shall o'er my low pillow slow, solemnly wave
And yearly thy pilgrimage pay to my grave;
While all the sad weeds that enwrap and adorn thee
Shall o'er my low pillow slow, solemnly wave
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