Oh, Autumn! thou art here a king;
And round thy throne the smiling Hours
A thousand fragrant tributes bring
Of golden fruits and blushing flowers.
Oh, not upon thy fading fields and fells
In such rich garb doth Autumn come to thee,
My home!—but o'er thy mountains and thy dells
His footsteps fall slowly and solemnly.
Nor flower nor bud remaineth there to him,
Save the faint-breathing rose, that, round the year