TO AUTUMN.

SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness! a

Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun ;' Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch

b eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, c And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core ;

d To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells

& With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,

a And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy)

cells.

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Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store ?

Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,

Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind ; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook

d Spares the next swath and all its twined

flowers ;
And sometime like a gleaner thou dost keep

d
Steady thy laden head across a brook ;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by

e
hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are

they ?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;

Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,

And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

od od dodoro

ODE ON MELANCHOLY.

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist

Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous

wine ;

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine ;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be

Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries ;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,

And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

Or on the wealth of globed peonies ; Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu ; and aching Pleasure nigh,

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips : Ay, in the very temple of Delight Veild Melancholy has her sovran shrine, Though seen of none save him whose stren

uous tongue Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine; His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,

And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

LINES ON THE MERMAID TAVERN.

Souls of poets dead and gone,
What Elysium have ye known,
Happy field or mossy cavern,
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern ?
Have ye tippled drink more fine
Than mine host's Canary wine ?
Or are fruits of Paradise
Sweeter than those dainty pies
Of venison ? O generous food !
Drest as though bold Robin Hood
Would, with his maid Marian,
Sup and bowse from horn and can.

I have heard that on a day
Mine host's sign-board flew away,
Nobody knew whither, till
An astrologer's old quill
To a sheepskin gave the story,
Said he saw you in your glory,
Underneath a new old-sign
Sipping beverage divine,