ΤΟ WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, Esq. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forrest. NOVEMBER'S sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear: Late, gazing down the steepy linn, 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; Away hath pass'd the heather-bell That bloom'd so rich on Needpath-fell; Sallow his brow, and russet bare Are now the sister-heights of Yare. The sheep, before the pinching heaven, The wither'd sward and wintry sky, And far beneath their summer hill, 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, And wail the daisy's vanish'd flower; Their summer gambols tell, and mourn, And birds and lambs again be gay, And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray? Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower Again shall paint your summer bower; Again the hawthorn shall supply The garlands you delight to tie ; The wild birds carol to the round, To mute and to material things But oh! my Country's wintry state The hand, that grasp'd the victor steel? Even on the meanest flower that blows; |