A FRAGMENT br br Farewell the softer hours, Spring's opening blush br And Summer's deeper glow, the shepherd's pipe br Tuned to the murmurs of a weeping spring, br And song of birds, and gay enameled fields,— br Farewell! 'T is now the sickness of the year, br Not to be medicined by the skillful hand. br Pale suns arise that like weak kings behold br Their predecessor's empire moulder from them; br While swift-increasing spreads the black domain br Of melancholy Night;—no more content br With equal sway, her stretching shadows gain br On the bright morn, and cloud the evening sky. br Farewell the careless lingering walk at eve, br Sweet with the breath of kine and new-spread hay; br And slumber on a bank, where the lulled youth, br His head on flowers, delicious languor feels br Creep in the blood. A different season now br Invites a different song. The naked trees br Admit the tempest; rent is Nature's robe; br Fast, fast, the blush of Summer fades away br From her wan cheek, and scarce a flower remains br To deck her bosom; Winter follows close, br Pressing impatient on, and with rude breath br Fans her discoloured tresses. Yet not all br Of grace and beauty from the falling year br Is torn ungenial. Still the taper fir br Lifts its green spire, and the dark holly edged br With gold, and many a strong perennial plant, br Yet cheer the waste: nor does yon knot of oaks br Resign its honours to the infant blast. br This is the time, and these the solemn walks, br When inspiration rushes o'er the soul br Sudden, as through the grove the rustling breeze.