POEMS. 



341 



How fall'n the glories of these fading scenes! 

 The dusky beech resigns his vernal greens ; 

 The yellow maple mourns in sickly hue, 

 And russet woodlands croud the dark'ning view. 



Dim, clust'ring fogs involve the country round, 

 The valley, and the blended mountain-ground 

 Sink in confusion ; but with tempest-wing 

 Should Boreas from his northern barrier spring. 

 The rushing woods with deaf 'ning clamour roar, 

 Like the sea tumbling on the pebbly shore. 

 When spouting rains descend in torrent tides. 

 See the torn zigzag weep its channel'd sides : 

 Winter exerts its rage ; heavy and slow. 

 From the keen east rolls on the treasur'd snow ; 

 Sunk with its weight the bending boughs are seen. 

 And one bright deluge whelms the works of men. 

 Amidst this savage landscape, bleak and bare. 

 Hangs the chill hermitage in middle air; 

 Its haunts forsaken, and its feasts forgot, 

 A leaf-strown, lonely desolated cot ! 



Is this the scene that late with rapture rang. 

 Where Delphy danc'd, and gentle Anna sang ; 

 With fairy-step where Harriet tripp'd so late. 

 And on her stump reclined the musing Kitty sate ? 



Return, dear Nymphs ; prevent the purple spring, 

 Ere the soft nightingale essays to sing ; 

 Ere the first swallow sweeps the fresh'ning plain. 

 Ere love-sick turtles breathe their amorous pain ; 

 Let festive glee th' enliven'd village raise. 

 Pan's blameless reign, and patriarchal days ; 



