NOVEMBER, an Elegy.

HOLFORD.

SAD wears the hour!-heavy and drear
Creeps, with slow pace, the waning year,
And sullen, sullen, heaves the blast
Its deep sighs o'er the lonely waste!
Nature looks pale, and sick, and waning,
And loads the dank air with her hoarse complaining;
'Mid the blue mist stands a dusky form,

I gaze and shudder to remember
That grin precursor of the storm,

The generous Briton's foe, dull, scowling, dark
November!

O'er the fallen leaves he takes his way,

Whispering, and murmuring themes of sorrow; He points at the cloud which veils the day, And smiting his breast, he seems to say,

"It shall burst on thy head to-morrow!" Then he hints in deep sepulchral tone,

At the peace which is under the church-yard stone! November, ever by thy side

Lurk wan despair, ungenial pride!

No roses round thy mornings bloom,
And thy eve descends with tenfold gloom,
Gladness abash'd when thou art nigh,
Enforced heaves a timid sigh;

Lo! blighted by thy withering frown,
Love, sickening, sees his myrtle crown

Fade, fall, and change, beneath his eye

To the yellow tint of jealousy,

Then scatter'd by the winds, dispers'd and trampl'd lie!

November, why does every brow

Droop, as thy dun cloud sails the sky,
Why do thy hours o'er mortals flow
Lagging and sullenly?

Seldom, dark month, thy form is seen
To wear December's warrior mien ;
Still does thy scanty verdure grow,
Unburied yet by winter's snow,

The storms, which soon shall burst amain,
With all their winds, a boisterous train.
But menace now-yet who but sighs
For louder winds and wilder skies?
Who but looks onward with desire

To the clustering group, and social fire?
Then get thee hence-tread thou the path
Which circling months have trod before,
Give way to winter's honest wrath,
For, grateful that thy reign is o'er,

Welcome the fleecy shower! welcome the whirlwind'sroar!

November, why o'er yonder tomb
Low'rs thy dark sky with denser gloom?
O'er yon deserted, lonely grave,

Thy rushing winds more shrilly rave,
There thick descends thy yellow leaf
In whirling eddies from on high,
And in the sudden sob of grief

Thy voice mourns hollowly!

Who slumbers there-what silent friend,

That on his chill dank bed thy gather'd woes descend?

He was a man, whose rugged way

Still led thro' paths of sorrow,
Still dark and joyless rose his day,
Still did he fear to-morrow!
November low'r'd, the moaning wind
Breath'd sadness on a sadden'd mind!
Why did he listen, for it told

In whispers, low, and faint, and cold,
Of perish'd hope, of that still sleep
Which never wakes to groan and weep?
He heard alas!-And now the gust
Wails loudly o'er his mould'ring dust!
November, fancy's wayward child
Speaks to thee now,-full well she knows
That fraught for her, with omens wild,
Heavy thy breath's dank vapour blows!
But far beyond thy dusky sky,
Beyond poor nature, fading fast,
She pierces with confiding eye,

And spies a beacon 'mid the waste!

HUNTER.

SIGH not, ye winds, as passing o'er
The chambers of the dead you fly;
Weep not, ye dews, for these no more
Shall ever weep, shall ever sigh!

Why mourns the throbbing heart for rest?
How still it lies within the breast!
Why mourn since death presents us peace,
And in the grave our sorrows cease?

The shatter'd bark, from adverse winds,
Rest in this peaceful haven finds;
And, when the storms of life are past,
Hope drops her anchor here at last.

R

A MAN, in many a country town, we know, Professes openly with death to wrestle; Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe, Arm'd with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are;

But meet just like prize-fighters, in a fair,

Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother:
So (many a suff'ring patient saith)
Tho' the Apothecary fights with Death,
Still they're sworn friends to one another.

A member of this Esculapian line,
Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill ;
Or make a bill;

Or mix a draught, or bleed, a blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed;
Or give a clyster.

Of occupations these were quantum suff.:
Yet, still, he thought the list not long enough.
And therefore Midwifery he chose to pin to't.
This balanc'd things:-for if he hurl'd

A few score mortals from the world,

He made amends by bringing others into❜t.

His fame full six miles round the country ran;
In short, in reputation he was solus:
All the old women called him "a fine man
His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, tho' in trade,

(Which oftentimes will genius fetter)

Read works of fancy, it is said;

And cultivated the Belles Lettres.

נין

And why should this be thought so odd?
Can't men have taste who cure a phthysick?

Of poetry tho' Patron-God,

Apollo patronises physick.

Bolus lov'd verse; and took so much delight in't,
That his prescriptions he resolv'd to write in't.

No opportunity he e'er let pass

Of writing the directions, on his labels,
In dapper couplets,-like Gay's Fables;
Or, rather like the lines in Hudibras.

Apothecary's verse!-and where's the treason?
'Tis simply honest dealing:-not a crime ;-
When patients swallow physick without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.