TO AUTUMN NEAR HER DEPARTURE.
Thou maid of gentle light! thy straw-wove vest,
And russet cincture; thy loose pale-tinged hair;
Thy melancholy voice and languid air,
As if shut up within that pensive breast,
Some ne’er-to-be-divulged grief was prest;
Thy looks resign’d, that smiles of patience wear,
While Winter’s blasts thy scattered tresses tear;
Thee, Autumn, with divinest charms have blest
Let blooming Spring with gaudy hopes delight,
That dazzling Summer shall of her be born;
Let Summer blaze, and Winter’s stormy train
Breathe awful music in the ear of night;
Thee will I court, sweet dying maid forlorn,
And from thy glance will catch th’ inspired strain.
Sir Egerton Brydges, 1762–1837.