WRITTEN IN AUTUMN. THE gladsome hours are gone, and from the fields, Now mute and naked, cheerful Toil retires; The sun far off a paler radiance yields, And darts more faint his horizontal fires. Mark, how the thickets fade! whose pleasing gloom No longer charms, whose music all is pass'd; Prepared to shed their last autumnal bloom, And bare their foreheads to the wintry blast. To those who riot in the mad career Of wealth and luxury and idleness, [tear Whose souls ne'er felt, whose eyes ne'er shed a For worth forsaken, or for pale distress, No moral charm these pensive scenes impart; And serious think on those who suffer pain. VOL. IV. M Endear'd, perhaps, by those whose looks we loved, Whose gentle voice was music to our ears, Now far away by fates unkind removed, Or gone where love is vain, and vain our tears. These too may speak of early friendship flown, But ne'er shall youth nor youth's delights return, HAMLEY, ELEGIAC EPISTLE TO A FRIEND *. FRIEND of my youth, shedd'st thou the pitying tear O'er the sad relics of my happier days? Of nature tender, as of soul sincere, Pour'st thou for me the melancholy lays? Oh! truly said!—the distant landscape bright, Whose vivid colours glitter'd on the eye, Is faded now, and sunk in shades of night, As on some chilly eve the closing flowerets die. * Written under a dejection of spirits. Yet had I hoped, when first, in happier times, Yet could my heart the selfish comfort know, Born to a happier state, how many pine To the sad symptoms of a broken heart! How many, fated from their birth to view Misfortunes growing with their ripening years, The same sad track through various scenes pursue, Still journeying onward through a vale of tears. To them, alas! what boots the light of heaven, While still new miseries mark their destined way, Whether to their unhappy lot be given Death's long sad night, or life's short busy day! Me not such themes delight:-I more rejoice For why should he who roves the dreary waste If e'er a gleam of comfort glads my soul, If e'er my brow to wonted smiles unbends, "Tis when the fleeting minutes, as they roll, Can add one gleam of pleasure to my friends. Even in these shades, the last retreat of grief, Some transient blessings will that thought beTo Melancholy's self yield some relief, [stow; And ease the breast surcharged with mortal woe. Long has my bark, in rudest tempest toss'd, Buffeted seas, and stemm'd life's hostile wave; Suffice it now, in all my wishes cross'd, To seek a peaceful harbour in the grave. And when that hour shall come (as come it must, Ere many moons their waning horns increase), When this frail frame shall mix with kindred dust, And all its fond pursuits and troubles cease; When those black gates that ever open stand, When life's frail glass has run its latest sand, And the dull jest repeated charms no more; Then may my friend weep o'er the funeral hearse, Then may his presence gild the awful gloom, And his last tribute be some mournful verse, To mark the spot that holds my silent tomb.This-and no more:-the rest let Heaven provide; To which, resign'd, I trust my weal or woe, Assured, howe'er its justice shall decide, To find nought worse than I have left below. GAY. TO A WITHERED LEAF, WHICH FLEW INTO THE BOSOM OF THE AUTHOR. PALE, wither'd wanderer, seek not here Cold is the atmosphere of grief, When storms assail the barren breast; Go then, poor exile, seek relief In bosoms where the heart has rest; Or fall upon the' oblivious ground, Where, sepulchred in peace, repose Who all their mortal tears have shed. |