DROPS FROM FLORA’S CUP, 
139 
SONNET TO SEPTEMBER. 
WORDSWORTH. 
While not a leaf seems farted — while the fields, 
With ripening harvest prodigally fair, 
In brightest sunshine bask, — this nipping air, 
Sent from some distant clime where winter wields 
His icy scymitar, a foretaste yields 
Of bitter change — and bids the flowers beware; 
And whispers to the silent birds, ' Prepare 
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields. ’ 
For me, who under kindlier laws belong 
To Nature’s tuneful choir, this rustling dry 
Through the green leaves, and yon crystalline sky. 
Announce a season potent to renew, 
’Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song, — 
And nobler cares than listless summer knew. 
MRS. JEWSBURY. 
Faded flowers, 
Sweet faded flowers, 
Beauty and death 
Have ruled your hours; 
Ye woke in bloom but a morn ago, 
And now your blossoms in dust laid low. 
