Classic Poem

Now , when the Sun, with less enamour'd beam,
Lights the faint blushes of the fading year,
Oh! teach me, matron staid!
To wooe thy tender calm;

For much I love the languish of thine eye,
Luxurious stream'd o'er each congenial scene,
That lends to all around,
A delicate repose;

Whether, thy ev'ning-clouds their skirts unfold
Of paler purple, thro' the forest-gloom
Effusing partial streaks,
From their ethereal glow;

Or, the blue bosom of the tranquil lake,
Where Silence sits amid the dusky steam,
Scarce undulating, heaves
Thy chasten'd smile beneath.

Thy auburn locks with dewey woodbine drest,
Ere yet the sere wreath withers on thy brow,
Or brumal blasts deform
Thy stole of sober green,

Oft, mid the leafy wilderness of shade,
Thro' its obscure recesses moaning deep,
But yet without a wind,
Conduct my devious step!

Nor seldom, let me catch the softer dash
Of distant water, from some willowey sluice,
Prone to its pebbled bed,
Bounding in fairy fall;

Or, curfeu's slumb'rous swing from village-spire;
Or, hollow hum of whisp'ring voices near,
Homeward returning late;
Or, watchdog's sullen bay;

Meanwhile, the mellow swell of past'ral flute,
May, from her thicket, lure the Attic bird,
With one sad-closing strain,
To harmonize the whole.

Then will the Muse, (the Muse, thy handmaid fair,)
When all the hamlet's hush'd in silence sweet,
Resume her solemn song,
Her song of grateful praise;

For, ever in thy rear is Genius seen,
Inly conversing with himself; and, then,
Contrasting with each sight,
The creatures of the Mind.

Thine, Wisdom too, and rapt Devotion, thine,
List'ning the sphery chime, with pauseful ear;
Sage Meditation still,
And eagle-pinion'd Thought:

While those, with brighter yet, that troop behind,
Content, blithe child of Labour, well-repaid,
(Who, laughing, leads along
Brown Harvest's buxom form,

The poppy nodding mid her sheafy crest;)
And Vintage, flush'd with his own ruddy grape,
Complete thy festal train,
Superior to assault;

Well, loveliest A UTUMN ! may'st thou mock the rage
Of Winter , surly dotard, following fierce,
With frozen breath malign
To blight thy later blooms;

Nor need'st thou, yet, the full, voluptuous glare
Of Summer, envy, more divinely drest,
By Nature's liberal hand,
In plenitude and peace!