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WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, Esq.
Ashestiel, Ettricke Forest.
November's sky is chill and drear,
You scarce the rivulet might ken,
So thick the tangled green-wood grew,
An angry brook, it sweeps the glade,
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 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,
Stray sadly by Glenkinnon's rill:
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,
And blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?
Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower Again shall paint your summer bower ;
Again the hawthorn shall supply
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
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;