ΤΟ WILLIAM STEWART ROSE, Esq. Ashestiel, Ettricke Forrest. NOVEMBER'S sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear: Late, gazing down the steepy linn, An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, Brawls over rock and wild cascade, And, foaming brown with doubled speed, Hurries its waters to the Tweed. No longer Autumn's glowing red Upon our Forest hills is shed; No more, beneath the evening beam, Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam; Away hath pass'd the heather-bell That bloom'd so rich on Needpath-fell; Sallow his brow, and russet bare Are now the sister-heights of Yare. The wither'd sward and wintry sky, And far beneath their summer hill, A cowering glance they often cast, As deeper moans the gathering blast. My imps, though hardy, bold, and wild, As best befits the mountain child, Feel the sad influence of the hour, Yes, prattlers, yes. The daisy's flower Again shall paint your summer bower; Again the hawthorn shall supply The garlands you delight to tie; To mute and to material things But oh! my Country's wintry state The hand, that grasp'd the victor steel? Even on the meanest flower that blows; But vainly, vainly may he shine, Where Glory weeps o'er NELSON's shrine; And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb! Deep graved in every British heart, O never let those names depart ! Say to your sons,-Lo, here his grave, Who victor died on Gadite wave; To him, as to the burning levin, Short, bright, resistless course was given ; Till burst the bolt on yonder shore, Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd,—and was no more. Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth, Who bade the conqueror go forth, And launch'd that thunderbolt of war On Egypt, Hafnia,* Trafalgar ; Copenhagen. |