Classic Poem

The Sun far southwards bends his annual way,
The Leak north-east wind lays the forest bare,
The Fruit ungathered quits the naked spray,
And dreary winder reigns o'er earth and air.

No makr of vegtable life is seen,
No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call;
we the dark leaves of some rude ever-green,
Save the lone Red-breast of the moss-grown wall

Where are the sprightly scenes by spring supply'd,
The may-flowr'd hedges scenting every breeze;
The white flocks scatt'ring o'er the mountains side;
The wood-lark warbling on the blooming trees?

Where is gay summer's sportive insect-train,
That in green fields on painted pinions play'd?
The herd at morn wide-pasturing o'er the plain,
Or throng'd at noon-tide in the willow shade.

Where is brown autumn's evening, mild and still,
What time the ripen'd corn fresh fragrance yields;
What time the village peoples all the hill,
And loud shouts echo o'er the harvest fields?

To former scenes our fancy thus returns,
To former scenes, that little pleas'd when here!
Our winter chills us, and our summer burns,
Yet we dislike the changes of the year.

To happier lands then restless fancy flies,
Where Indian streams through green Savannahs flow;
Where brighter suns, and ever tranquil skies,
Bid new fruits ripen, and new flow'rets blow.

Let truth these fairer, happier lands survey!
There half the year descends in wat'ry storms;
Or nature sickens in the blaze of day,
And one brown hue the sun-burnt plain deforms.

There oft, as toiling in the mazy fields,
Or homeward passing on the shadeless way,
His joyless life, the weary lab'rer yields,
And instant drops beneath the deathful ray.

Who dreams of nature free from nature's strife
Who dreams of constant happiness below?
The hope-flush'd ent'rer on the stage of life;
The youth to knowledge unchastis'd by woe.

For me, long toil'd on many a weary road,
Led by false hope in search of many a joy;
I find, on earth's bleak clime, no blest abode,
No place; no season, sacred from annoy.

For me, while winter rages round the plains,
With his dark days, I'll human life compare:
Not those more fraught with clouds, and winds, and rains,
Than with this pining pain, and anxious care.

O whence this wond'rous turn of mind, our fate!
Whate'er the season, or the place possest,
We ever murmur at our present state;
And yet the thought of parting breaks our rest.

Why else, when heard in evening's solemn gloom,
Does the sad knell, that, sounding o'er the plain,
Tolls some poor lifeless body to the tomb,
Thus thrill my breast with melancholy pain?

The voice of reason echoes in my ear,
Thus thou, e'er long, must join thy kindred clay:
No more this breast the vital spirit share,
No more these eye-lids open on the day.

O winter, round me spread thy joyless reign,
Thy threatning skies in dusky horrors drest;
Of thy dread rage no longer I'll complain,
Nor ask an EDEN for a transient guest.

Enough has heav'n indulg'd of joy below,
To tempt our tarriance in this lov'd retreat;
Enough has heav'n ordain'd of useful woe,
To make us languish for a happier seat.

There is who deems all climes all seasons fair,
There is who knows no restless passion's strife;
Contentment, smiling at each idle care,
Contentment, thankful for the gift of life.

She finds, in winter, many a scene to please,
The morning landscape fring'd with frost-work gay,
The sun at noon seen through the leafless trees,
The clear, calm æther, at the close of day.

She bids for all, our grateful praise arise
To Him, whose mandate spake the world to form;
For spring's gay bloom, and summer's chearful skies,
And autumn's corn-clad field, and winter's sounding storm.