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 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, That bloomed so rich on Needpath-fell; In meek despondency they eye 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, And wail the daisy's vanished flower; And birds and lambs again be gay, 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 lambs upon the lea shall bound, The wild birds carol to the round, And while you frolic light as they, To mute and to material things But Oh! my country's wintry state The hand, that grasped the victor steel? Even on the meanest flower that blows; |