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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,
Low in its dark and narrow glen,
You scarce the rivulet might ken,
So thick the tangled green-wood grew,
Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen
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.
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 blossoms clothe the hawthorn spray?
Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower Again shall paint your summer bower ;
Again the hawthorn shall supply
Too short shall seem the summer day.
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 vernal sun new life bestows
Even on the meanest flower that blows;