Fled are the lovely birds of summer pride

Fled are the lovely birds of summer pride; Snow rudely clogs their lately verdant bowers; Scattered their nests, their heaven-writ songs have died To waken only with the vernal flowers; Save here and there some shiv’ring one remains, The last of summer’s gay and dulcet choir, Though but an echo of her former strains, A wand’ring cinder from her heavenly fire.

A tree anon wears yet a faded plume, Keen shiv’ring in the cruel winds alone— Sad Autumn’s garland left on Summer’s tomb, Since parted long, and silent in her own. As mourning yet their fated brothers slain, Above the snow some scattered sheaves appear— Those keepsakes dear my bosom would retain, As sacred locks from Autumn’s yellow hair.

The owl, with loneliness her mate serene, Passes in dumb and dreamy mood the day; But when her starry auditors convene, And Evening hangs her sable scenery, On some old tree, its grandeur in the wane, That lonely looks across the wintry night, In all the volume of her mournful strain, She blends her woe with setting Luna’s light.

The partridge, startled from her secret bower, On whirring pinion her intruder flies, But crash! the bursting flame and leaden shower, Her plumage drench, and tear her vital ties. The cunning fox is bounding for his lair, And savagely by yelling hounds pursued; But spite of all his speed and crafty care, His calm is ransomed only with his blood.

And ’long his narrow, thicket-piercing road, Gay runs the innocent and timid hare; E’en he, to satisfy the thirst for blood, Falls by the gory shot or cruel snare. And thus the timid and the shrewd alike, The innocent, the guilty and the brave, Must fall to fill man’s barbarous delight,— Think! our delight a happy creature’s grave!

So fate is wonted everywhere below: Man’s cruel aims some victim ever find; Or innocent or guilty, friend or foe, His heart is ever the destroying kind. Revenge pursues a fleeing brother’s breath, While in ambition’s race a thousand fall; Cold Envy plans our reputation’s death, And pampered passion bleeds the peace of all.

The axe is busy in its silvern home, The glaring slayer of its shelt’ring tree; Whose measured notes, far sounding, sweetly form A happy scale of rural industry. Along the field and winding woodland ways, Moves slowly Fuel’s car—of future bright; The faithful steer seems conscious he conveys The coming chief of many a happy night.