Autumn

  1 Alas! with swift and silent pace,
      Impatient Time rolls on the year;
    The seasons change, and Nature's face
      Now sweetly smiles, now frowns severe.



  2 'Twas Spring, 'twas Summer, all was gay;
      Now Autumn bends a cloudy brow;
    The flowers of Spring are swept away,
      And Summer fruits desert the bough.
  3 The verdant leaves that play'd on high,
      And wanton'd on the western breeze,
    Now trod in dust neglected lie,
      As Boreas strips the bending trees.
  4 The fields, that waved with golden grain,
      As russet heaths are wild and bare;
    Not moist with dew, but drench'd in rain,
      Nor Health, nor Pleasure wanders there.
  5 No more, while through the midnight shade,
      Beneath the moon's pale orb I stray,
    Soft pleasing woes my heart invade,
      As Progne* pours the melting lay.
  6 From this capricious clime she soars,
      Oh! would some god but wings supply!
    To where each morn the Spring restores,
      Companion of her flight, I'd fly.
  7 Vain wish! me Fate compels to bear
      The downward season's iron reign,
    Compels to breathe polluted air,
      And shiver on a blasted plain.
  8 What bliss to life can Autumn yield,
      If glooms, and showers, and storms prevail,
    And Ceres flies the naked field,
      And flowers, and fruits, and Phoebus fail?
  9 Oh! what remains, what lingers yet,
      To cheer me in the darkening hour?
    The grape remains! the friend of wit,
      In love and mirth of mighty power.

  10 Haste--press the clusters, fill the bowl;
       Apollo! shoot thy parting ray:
     This gives the sunshine of the soul,
       This god of health, and verse, and day.
  11 Still, still the jocund strain shall flow,
       The pulse with vigorous rapture beat;
     My Stella with new charms shall glow,
       And every bliss in wine shall meet.

* 'Progne:' the nightingale.