187 
Yes, thou art welcome, Autumn! all thy changes, 
From fitful gloom to sunny sky serene, 
Ihy starry vault, o’er which the charmed eye ranges, 
Or clear, cold moonlight, touching every scene 
With its peculiar sadness, are sweet things, 
To which my spirit ever fondly clings. 
There is a moral in the withered wreaths 
And faded garlands that adorn thy bowers, 
Each blighted shrub, chilled flower, or seared leaf, 
breathes 
Of parted days, and brighter by-gone hours, 
Contrasting with the present dreary scene, 
Spring’s budding beauties, pleasures which have been , 
That, like the fair Hydrangea , breathes around 
The mental fragrance in ‘ Contentment ’ found. 
Oh, Life! thy pageantry is thus portrayed; 
A thousand emblems picture thee to view, 
But never, till Experience has laid 
On the young heart her wand, we deem them true; 
Then, while yet smarting from the touch, we own 
The phantoms faithless, from the sight withdrawn! 
