142 THE MARCH OF THE SEASONS 



Thus kindly I scatter 



Thy leaves o'er the bed, 



Where thy mates of the garden 

 Lie scentless and dead. 



So soon may / follow, 



When friendships decay, 

 And from Love's shining circle 



The gems drop away ; 

 When true hearts lie wither'd, 



And fond ones are flown, 

 Oh ! who would inhabit 



This bleak world alone ? 



THOMAS MOORE. 



TO AUTUMN 



O AUTUMN, laden with fruit, and stained 

 With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit 

 Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayst rest, 

 And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe, 

 And all the daughters of the year shall dance ! 

 Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers. 



" The narrow bud opens her beauties to 

 The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins ; 

 Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning, and 

 Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve, 

 Till clustering Summer breaks forth into singing, 

 And feathered clouds strew flowers round her head. 



