ΤΟ WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, Esq. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest. NOVEMBER'S sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear : Late, gazing down the steepy linn, That hems our little garden in, Low in its dark and narrow glen, You scarce the rivulet might ken, So thick the tangled green-wood grew, So feeble trilled the streamlet through: An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, Brawls over rock and wild cascade, And, foaming brown with doubled speed, Hurries its waters to the Tweed. No longer Autumn's glowing red Upon our Forest hills is shed'; No more, beneath the evening beam, Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam; That bloomed so rich on Needpath-fell; The withered sward and wintry sky, And far beneath their summer hill, A cowering glance they often cast, As deeper moans the gathering blast. My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild, As best befits the mountain child, Feel the sad influence of the hour, ? Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower Again shall paint your summer bower; |