THE MANTLE OP MOSS. 303 



THE MANTLE OF MOSS. 



Now autumn's fraits and flowers are gather'd in. 



And wither'd foliage fled the leafy grove ; 

 The ample flood leaps foaming o'er the linn. 



And all seems dark and drear where'er we rove. 

 Has Phoebus' chariot then forgot to move ? 



Does Nature falter in her bright career ? 

 Will winter's gales but desolation prove. 



And sing the requiem of the faded year ? 

 Nor leave one floret still our wandering steps to cheer ? 



II. 



How bleak the landscape where the wither'd stems 



Alone remain to deck the wintry scene 1 

 Where late were eull'd the Harebell's nodding gems, 



A few decaying leaves are all we glean 

 In botanizing ; brown the faded heath ; 



'Mid rustling reeds in mai-shy grounds at times 

 The wind is howling, charged with work of death; 



No more the woodland echoes with the chimes 

 Of summer minstrels, lately 'scaped to sunnier climes. 



III. 



But though in rural walks we meet no more 

 The bright-eyed children of long summer days. 



Again the verdant landscape to restore, 

 Another race will court the admiring gaze ; 



