XXXVI. 



THE INDIAN SUMMER. 



TH' autumnal hues have faded in the woods ; 



The birds have left their flowerless solitudes. 



The leaves are falling fast, and from the sky, 



The chilly breezes may be heard to sigh, 



As often, in their now deserted bowers, 



The north wind eddies o'er the graves of flowers. 



Our rural haunts are desolate and drear, 



And all the wild domain is brown and sere, 



The many-tinted groves, the cool recess, 



The summer shelter for our weariness, 



Are opened rudely to the glare of day, 



And wintry winds within their arbors play. 



Some late-born asters linger on the plains, 



That come not out till summer's beauty wanes ; 



And pale gerardias, in our woodland walk, 



Are hardly faded on their wilted stalk ; 



And gentians with their eyelids fringed with blue, 



Still glitter in the morning's frosty dew ; 



But few will trust their flowers, now summer 's past, 



To wintry winds and rude November's blast. 



