IV. The squirrel gloats on his accomplish'd hoard, The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe grain, And honey bees have stor'd The sweets of summer in their luscious cells; The swallows all have wing'd across the main ; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, And sighs her tearful spells Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. Upon a mossy stone, She sits and reckons up the dead and gone Whilst all the wither'd world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drowned past V. O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care ;- If only for the rose that died,-whose doom Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear,— To frame her cloudy prison for the soul ! BALLAD. SPRING it is cheery, Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly; When he 's forsaken, Wither'd and shaken, What can an old man do but die? Love will not clip him, Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by; Youth it is sunny, Age has no honey,— What can an old man do but die? June it was jolly, O for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye; Youth may be silly, Wisdom is chilly,— What can an old man do but die? Friends, they are scanty, Beggars are plenty, If he has followers, I know why ; Gold's in his clutches, (Buying him crutches !)—— What can an old man do but die? |