Autumn departs, and with it ends the song
Of the rude bard, who first essayed to sing
In high scholastic verse, its scenes of gold;
A pleasant pastime for an idle month,
When the hot sun pour’d down its sickly rays.
And pestilence at noonday walked abroad.
Autumn departs, and on its cheerless gale,
Sighing o’er barren moor and russet grove,
The feeble lay goes forth, with deep distrust,
And much of hope, entwined with more of fear.