Lines Written At The Sea-Side In Devonshire, In The Month Of November, When The Ships From Newfoundland Return.

Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores, Nor yet she quits her rose-erected bow’r; Tho’ oft in many a dew-drop she explores Her beauties fading in each passing hour! Tho’ Winter’s boist’rous child, November, strays Amid those scenes that wak’d the poet’s lyre, Shakes his green canopy, and loves to raise, Of sapless leaves, an altar for his sire. Soon shall his wild and stormy sway be o’er; These lovely scenes shall feel his shortest reign; And thou, sweet Summer! charming as before, Shall but retire to dress thyself again. Yet Heaven guides, full provident and kind, With sweet economy, the source of joy, From grief extracts some comfort for the mind, And fresh hopes flatter ere the lost annoy. See where Connubial Love yon rock ascends, To hail each sail, while fav’ring breezes blow; There many an hour she o’er the margin bends, Her bosom trembling like the floods below. Nearer the ocean’s graceful burden glides; Cleav’d by its prow, the lines of water yield: While adverse mountains, with protective sides, The Heav’n-directed wand’ring seaman shield. The anchor dropp’d, he springs upon the shore, His wife and children press to meet his kiss; Half-told, a thousand things they prattle o’er, And, safe at home, renew their former bliss.