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But, oh! thou gentle Summer,

If I greet thy flowers once more,
Bring me again the buoyancy

Wherewith my soul should soar !

MRS. HEMANS.

AUTUMN.

When the bright Virgin gives the beauteous days,
And Libra weighs in equal scales the year ;
From heaven's high cope, with fierce effulgence shook,
Of parting Summer, a serener blue,
With golden light enlivened, wide invests
The happy world. Attempered suns arise,
Sweet-beamed, and shedding oft through lucid clouds
A pleasing calm; while broad and brown below,
Extensive harvests hang the heavy head.
Rich, silent, deep, they stand; for not a gale
Rolls its light billows o'er the bending plain :
A calm of plenty ! till the ruffled air
Falls from its poise, and gives the breeze to blow.
Rent is the fleecy mantle of the sky;
The clouds fly different; and the sudden sun
By fits effulgent gilds the illumined fields,
And black by fits the shadows sweep along.
A gaily-chequered, heart-expanding view,
Far as the circling eye can shoot around,
Unbounded tossing in a flood of corn.

THOMSON

L'AUTOMNE.

SALUT, bois couronnés d'un reste de verdure !

Feuillages jaunissans sur les gazons épars! Salut, derniers beaux jours ! le deuil de la nature

Convient à ma douleur, et plait à mes regards.

Oui, dans ces jours d'Automne où la nature expire,

A ses regards voilés je trouve plus d'attraits. C'est l'adieu d'un ami, c'est le dernier sourire

Des lèvres que la mort va fermer pour jamais.

Ainsi, prêt à quitter l'horizon de la vie,

Pleurant de mes longs jours l'espoir évanoui, Je me retourne encore, et d'un regard d'envie

Je contemple ses biens dont je n'ai pas joui.

Terre, soleil, vallons, belle et douce nature !

Je vous dois une larme au bord de mon tombeau ; L'air est si parfumé ! la lumière est si pure!

Aux regards d'un mourant le soleil est si beau.

Je voudrais maintenant vuider jusqu'à la lie,

Ce calice mêlé de nectar et de fiel:
Au fond de cette coupe où je buvais la vie,

Peutêtre restait-il une goutte de miel !

La fleur tombe en livrant ses parfums au zéphire,

A la vie, au soleil, ce sont là ses adieux; Moi, je meurs : et mon âme, au moment qu'elle expire,

S'exhale comme un son triste et mélodieux.

DE LAMARTINE.

WINTER.

'Tis done! dread Winter spreads its latest glooms,
And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year.
How dead the vegetable kingdom lies !
How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends
His desolate domain. Behold, fond man !
See here thy pictured life ; pass some few years,
Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength,
Thy sober Autumn fading into age ;
And pale concluding Winter comes at last,
And shuts the scene.

THOMSON.

DECEMBER.

No mark of vegetable life is seen ;

No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call, Save the dark leaves of some rude evergreen ; Save the lone redbreast on the moss-grown wall.

SCOTT

THE SEASONS.

When snows descend, and robe the fields

In winter's bright array:
Touched by the sun the lustre fades,

And weeps itself away.

When Spring appears; when violets blow,

And shed a rich perfume; How soou the fragrance breathes its last,

How short-liv'd is its bloom.

Fresh in the morn, the summer rose

Hangs withering ere 'tis noon; We scarce enjoy the balmy gift,

But mourn the pleasure gone.

With gliding fire, an evening star

Streaks the autumnal skies ;
Shook from the sphere, it darts away,

And in an instant dies.

Such are the charms that flush the cheek,

And sparkle in the eye ;
So from the lovely finish'd form,

The transient graces fly.

To this the seasons as they roll,

Their attestation bring ;
They warn the fair; their every round

Confirm the truth I sing.

HERVEY.

CHOICE OF SEASONS,

Who loves not Spring's voluptuous hours,
The carnival of birds and flowers ?
Yet who would choose, however dear,
That Spring should revel all the year?
Who loves not Summer's splendid reign,
The bridal of the earth and main ?
Yet who would choose, however bright,
A dog-day noon without a night?
Who loves not Autumn's joyous round,
When corn, and wine, and oil abound?
Yet who would choose, however gay,
A year of unrenewed decay?
Who loves not Winter's awful form ?
The sphere-born music of the storm ?
Yet who would choose, how grand soever,
The shortest day to last for ever?

MONTGOMERY.

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