The Decline of Autumn

The bosom of earth is all matted with leaves, The honours of Autumn decay; Brown Ceres no longer exhibits her sheaves, To the golden-eyed monarch of day. With dissonant guns hills and vallies resound, The swains thro' the coppices rove; The partridges bleed on the arable ground, The pheasants lie dead in the grove.

The coats of the hedges look languidly green, The swallows relinquish the meads; Rude winter approaches with horrible mien, The flowrets give place to the weeds. The sun too is lazy, and slumbers abed, As loathing so early to rise: When risen, how dim looks his vapoury head! How faint he illumines the skies!

No more on the poles hang the clustering hops, Or form a magnificent shade; No more on their skirts shine the showery drops, For Autumn, their nurse, is decay'd. The gale that was wont to approach me so kind, Grows sharp, and flies hastily by, To give me sweet kisses no longer inclin'd, It bids the tear start from my eye.

O! see, while I speak, from the gun's levell'd aim Death pierces the birds of the air! Ye rovers, will nothing your conduct reclaim, And move your hard bosoms to spare? No, nothing—ye cry with unanimous voice, While ridicule falls from your tongue: Ye think not, ye cruel ones, as ye rejoice, How once the poor innocents sung.

To others such barbarous sports I resign, And fly to my Florimel's arms; Her sanctified love shall be totally mine, For virtue adds force to her charms. On the base of religion, my fair, let it rise! To crown us with blessings 'twas given, To bid our souls mount from the earth to the skies, And give us a foretaste of heaven.