 | The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott
|  |
|
XXXI.
Ay, startle with the sound of falling leaves
Yon white-hair'd man, October! he, like thee,
To summer's glowing brightness fondly cleaves,
And doom'd no more of hope's glad crew to be,
Speaks of his mournful doom reproachfully.
His year hath gather'd in its golden sheaves.
The weary wretch complains, that he must sleep.
Because his work is done, the idler grieves;
Because he can no longer get or keep
The things that call on men to toil and weep.
Then, let thy far-off sea-voiced winds growl out
Their “Here-we-come!” forestalling accents deep
Of Doom's dread trumpet! when the heav'ns will shout,
“Hasten to Judgment, Child of Death and Doubt!”
| The Poetical Works of Ebenezer Elliott
| |
|
