THE LAST DAYS OF AUTUMN.
Sir Walter Scott.
Autumn departs — but still his mantle's fold
Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,
Beneath a shroud of russet dropp'd with gold,
Tweed and his tributaries mingle still;
Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill,
Yet lingering notes of sylvan music swell,
The deep-toned cushat, and the redbreast shrill;
And yet some tints of summer splendor tell
When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western
fell.
Autumn departs — from Gala's fields no more
Come rural sounds our kindred banks to cheer;
Blent with the stream, and gale that wafts it o'er,
No more the distant reaper's mirth we hear.
The last blithe shout hath died upon our ear,
And harvest home hath hush'd the clanging wain,
On the waste hill no forms of life appear,
Save where sad laggard of the autumnal train,
Some age-struck wanderer gleans few ears of scat-
tered grain.
Deem'st thou these sadden'd scenes have pleasure
still,
Lovest thou through Autumn's fading realms to
stray,
To see the heath-flower wither'd on the hill,
To listen to the wood's expiring lay,
To note the red leaf shivering on the spray,
To mark the last bright tints the mountain stain,
On the waste fields to trace the gleaner's way,
And moralize on mortal joy and pain? —
Oh ! if such scenes thou lov'st, scorn not the minstrel
strain!
