ON AN AUTUMNAL LEAF.
Think not, thou pride of Summer’s softest strain!
Sweet dress of Nature, in her virgin bloom!
That thou hast flutter’d to the breeze in vain,
Or unlamented found thy native tomb.
The Muse, who sought thee in the whisp’ring shade,
When scarce one roving breeze was on the wing,
With tones of genuine grief beholds thee fade,
And asks thy quick return in earliest Spring.
I mark’d the victim of the wintry hour,
I heard the winds breathe sad a fun’ral sigh,
When the lone warbler, from his fav’rite bow’r,
Pour’d forth his pensive song to see thee die;—
When, in his little temple, colder grown,
He saw its sides of green to yellow grow,
And mourn’d his little roof, around him blown,
Or toss’d in beauteous ruin on the snow;
And vow’d, throughout the dreary day to come,
(More sad by far than summer’s gloomiest night),
That not one note should charm the leafless gloom,
But silent Sorrow should attend thy flight.
SONG.
THE WORDS ADAPTED TO “THE COSSAKA,”
One of the most ancient of the Russ Airs.
Has Time a changeling made of thee?
Oh! no; and thou art all to me:
He bares the forest, but his pow’rs
Impair not love like ours.
Tho’ sever’d from each other’s sight,
When once we meet we shall unite,
As dew-drops down the lily run,
And, touching, blend in one.
For thee this bosom learnt to grieve,
Another never made it heave;
When present, oh! it was thy throne,
And, absent, thine alone.
Then may my trembling pilgrim feet
In safety find thy lov’d retreat!
And, if I’m doom’d to drop with care,
Still let me perish there!
TO MISS ATKINSON,
ON THE EXTREME DIFFIDENCE WHICH SHE
DISPLAYS TO STRANGERS.
Just as a fawn, in forest shade,
Trembling to meet th’ admiring eye,
I’ve seen thee try to hide, sweet maid!
Thy charms behind thy modesty.
Thus too I’ve seen at midnight steal
A fleecy cloud before the wind,
And veil, tho’ it could not conceal,
The brilliant light that shone behind.