October. an Ode

The naked grove now shivers at the blast, While his green mantle on the ground is cast. Bleak are the prospects of the widow'd trees, Mourning their faded glories in the breeze; Hark! where the barns conceal their yellow stores, Echo repeats the labour of the floors!

Like a young thresher, on the neighbouring hill, Her mimic strokes the distant woodlands fill; Now in the Scorpion, Phoebus rules the day, And Summer's painted foliage fades away, Shorn is the verdure of the hazel-shade, While the gale brushes o'er the auburn glade;

Now, ye autumnal beauties, mourn the time Mispent in prudery, while you pass'd your prime! And, ere the the plum is of its blue bereft, Be frugal of the golden hour that's left; Yon stately pine late triumph'd in its shade, But mark, in Autumn, how its honours fade!

The skies, prophetic of stern Winter, wear A sadder robe—and nipping is the air; Now to the thirsty root the sap descends, Tho' still the bough, with golden fruitage, bends. Still the hale jasmine boasts its white and green, And annuals triumph o'er the withering scene;

Now teem the cyder-vats with apple-wine, And emulate the nectar of the vine; While ripe Pomona labours to produce A cooling beverage for the Summer's use, The fervor of the heated swain to cool, While the proud dog-star holds his tyrant-rule;

Will Myra from her plighted promise range? Shall Love's affections with the weather change? No; tho' around dismantled forests pine, And the gay fields their velvet gloss resign, Reverse of Autumn, she shall never fade, But ardent Truth embower us with its shade.