LET NOTHING BE LOST 



November's sky is chill and drear, 

 November's leaf is red and sear: 

 Late, gazing down the sleepy linn, 

 That hems our little garden in, 

 Low in its dark and narrow glen, 

 You scarce the rivulet might ken, 

 So thick the tangled greenwood grew, 

 So feeble trilled the streamlet through: 

 Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen 

 Through bush and brier, no longer green 

 An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, 

 Brawls over rock and wild cascade, 

 And, foaming brown with doubled speed, 

 Hurries its waters to the Tweed. 



SIR WALTER SCOTT. 

 Marmion, Introduction. 



Across my garden! and the thicket stirs, 

 The fountain pulses high in sunnier jets, 



The blackcap warbles, and the turtle purrs, 

 The starling claps his tiny castanets. 



Still round her forehead wheels the woodland 



dove, 

 And scatters on her throat the sparks of dew, 



