Their end, though ne’er so brave;
And after they have shown their pride,
Like you away to glide
Into the grave.
The poet of the Seasons gives delightful utterance to the aspirations of many a bosom at this inspiring season:
Now from the town,
Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps,
Oft let me wander o’er the dewy fields,
Where freshness breathes; and dash the trembling drops
From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze