Autumn.

The Spring is gone, the Summer-beauty wanes, Like setting sunbeams, in their last decline; As evening shadows, lingering on the plains, Gleam dim and dimmer till they cease to shine: The busy bee hath humm'd himself to rest; Flowers dry to seed, that held the sweets of Spring; Flown is the bird, and empty is the nest, His broods are rear'd, no joys are left to sing. There hangs a dreariness about the scene, A present shadow of a bright has been. Ah, sad to prove that Pleasure's golden springs, Like common fountains, should so quickly dry, And be so near allied to vulgar things!-- The joys of this world are but born to die.