Song Xxiv. Autumn Poem by Robert Anderson

Tho' the garlands are faded which Summer had wove,
And the woods, hills, and meadows no longer look gay;
Tho' the blackbird's soft note steals no more thro' the grove,
Nor the lark hails enraptur'd the brightness of day;
Tho' no more with coy Health by the streamlets I range;
Yet, blest with my Ella, I mourn not the change.

Her cheeks can the roses and lilies outvie,
And all the wild flow'rets that wanton'd in June;
Her voice shall the voice of each minstrel supply;
For oft in fond raptures, o'ercome by the tune,
I fancy 'tis spring, and the nightingale's near;
Or summer I view in the smiles of my dear.

Then sear, sickly Autumn! what Spring bade to bloom:
Tho' on Winter loud calling, I heed not your rage,
While the smiles of my Ella dispel every gloom;
For with her 'twould seem spring in the winter of age,
Who, guided by Virtue, a charm can impart,
Unknown to gay Splendour, Ambition, or Art.