November. an Ode

Distant to southern climes the sloping sun Hastens to bend his rays beyond the line, Where Sagittary puts his armour on, Slung is the quiver, where his arrows shine; His azure bow reflects the solar beam, While his bright darts across th' horizon gleam.

Now first, the woodcock, near the gelid stream, Seeks his known haunt, amid th' embrowned copse, Where cruel fowlers take their deadly aim, Inglorious triumph! see, the victim drops!— Forbear your savage sport—oh! spare, ye swains, The new adventurers on Britannia's plains!

Now sharper bites the hyperborean blast, While eager morning chills us at the dawn, With drizzling sleet the sky is overcast, And the white frost bespangles o'er the lawn, The well-napp'd drugget cloaths the rural folk, And homely cots display a thicker smoke.

Come, Myra, since the woods have lost their shade, Since undelighting are the hills and plains, Quit we the villas, while their glories fade, To seek the town, where gayer pleasure reigns; But if the villas still delight my fair, Welcome the howling grove, and brumal air.

She, like Content, can bless the barren heath, Her presence bids the shaggy mount be smooth, For where she treads fresh herbage springs beneath, And Myrtles blow in spite of Winter's tooth; The rugged North, acknowledging her charms, Suspends his anger, and his blast disarms.