AN AUTUMNAL THOUGHT *

Sadly blows the rushing gale,
          Sadly roars the foaming stream,
Languid looks the faded vale,
          Pale, and faint Sol’s beam.

Varied hues the mountain’s side

          Gives to the spectator’s eye;
All its beauty, all its pride,
          Soon shall wither, soon shall die.

Soon the elm’s gay summer robe,
          Yielding to th’ autumnal blast,

Soon the poplar’s sylvan dress,
          Verdant, coverings, will be cast.

Winter gathering in the North,
          Now invades th’ ethereal plain,
Calls his cold attendants forth,

          Blasting winds, and sleet, and rain.

Nature holds the gloomy pall
          That must shroud the closing year;
Shuts the scene, and lets fall
          O’er its tomb a frozen tear.

Such is man! his bloom decays;
          Life’s pale autumn soon draws near;
Death his glory prostrate lays,
          And rounds the winter of his year.

Port Talbot, U. C. [Page 25]

* This poem appeared in The Scribbler (Montreal). I, 152, (1 November, 1821). [back]