September. an Ode

Farewell the pomp of Flora! vivid scene! Welcome sage Autumn, to invert the year— Farewell to summer's eye-delighting green! Her verdure fades—autumnal blasts are near. The silky wardrobe now is laid aside, With all the rich regalia of her pride.

And must we bid sweet Philomel adieu? She that was wont to charm us in the grove? Must Nature's livery wear a sadder hue, And a dark canopy be stretch'd above? Yes—for September mounts his ebon-throne, And the smooth foliage of the plain is gone.

Libra, to weigh the harvest's pearly store, The golden ballance poizes now on high, The calm serenity of Zephyr o'er, Sol's glittering legions to th' equator fly, At the same hour he shows his orient head, And, warn'd by Thetis, sinks in Ocean's bed.

Adieu! ye damask roses, which remind The maiden fair-one, how her charms decay; Ye rising blasts, oh! leave some mark behind, Some small memorial of the sweets of May: Ah! no—the ruthless season will not hear, Nor spare one glory of the ruddy year.

No more the waste of music sung so late From every bush, green orchestre of love, For now their winds the birds of passage wait, And bid a last farewell to every grove; While those, whom shepherd-swains the sleepers call, Chuse their recess in some sequester'd wall.

Yet still shall sage September boast his pride, Some birds shall chant, some gayer flowers shall blow, Nor is the season wholly unallied To purple bloom; the haler fruits shall grow, The stronger plants, such as enjoy the cold, And wear a livelier grace by being old.