SEPTEMBER 1815

              While not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
              With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
              In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,
              Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
              His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
              Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;
              And whispers to the silent birds, "Prepare
              Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields."
              For me, who under kindlier laws belong
              To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry
              Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,
              Announce a season potent to renew,
              'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
              And nobler cares than listless summer knew.

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