AN AUTUMNAL TALE.
"O Father, dear Father! lament now with me,
This morning I've been at our wood,
And the fine flowing leaves of your favourite tree,
Around on the grass are all strew'd;
And sure 'tis a pity! for lovely and green,
All summer they yielded a shade,
Dear Father, to you, who against it would lean,
While sister and I round it play'd.
Of late they began to change colour indeed,
Like the corn when 'tis ripe in the field;
And the dark glossy green became yellow and red,
As if they ripe berries would yield.
I thought this was pretty, and ne'er heard you say
That the leaves would soon fall from the tree;
And I never was happier than t'other fine day,
When you looked there at sister and me."
"Why, my boy, I am grieved at the tale you have told,
But the leaves every year drop around—
They are green in their youth, and turn red when they're old,
Then the wind blows them down to the ground.
But take comfort, my boy—when the winter is fled,
The leaves will appear on the tree,
And again form a bower thy father to shade,
And the gambols of sister and thee."
"Why, that's good—but, my father, I've sad news to tell;
Old William, who liv'd at Hillside,
And lately came hither so wan and so pale,
Old William this morning hath died."
"Old William hath died! Ah! indeed, I am sad;
But age, when it ripens, must fall,
Though green was his summer, his autumn must fade;
Such, my boy, is the end of us all."
"Then he fell like the leaves of your favourite tree,
But when the long winter is o'er,
Old William again on the hills shall we see
A feeding his flock as before?"
"Ah, no! my sweet boy!—the dead wander no more
In the bounds of this wind-wasted scene;
But to regions immortal all good spirits soar,
More lovely, more lasting, and green."