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WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, Esq.
Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest.
November's sky is chill and drear,
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade,
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 passed the heather-bell, That bloomed so rich on Needpath-fell; Sallow his brow, and russet bare Are now the sister-heights of Yare. The sheep, before the pinching heaven, To sheltered dale and down are driven, Where yet some faded herbage pines, And yet a watery sun-beam shines : : In meek despondency they eye. The withered sward and wintry: sky,
And far beneath their summer hill,
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; Their summer gambols tell, and mourn, And anxious ask,—Will spring return, 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
And while you frolic light as they,
To mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings; The genial call dead Nature hears, And in her glory re-appears. But Oh! my country's wintry state What second spring shall renovate? What powerful call shall bid arise The buried warlike, and the wise; The mind, that thought for Britain's weal, The hand, that grasped the victor steel? The vernal sun new life bestows Even on the meanest flower that blows;