98 EARLY POEMS ON At that !ov'd hour no longer the villagers rove, No dance shakes the green, and no pipe thrills the grove, 'Stead of mirthre'stead of song, the low hoarse breeze alone Seems to sigh a sad dirge for each joy that is flown. Oft Fancy, with some lonely mourner recliued, Wildly mingles her voice with each deep-sobbing wind; Oft, with pale, fearful finger, amid*the half-gloom, Traces many a form, that now sleeps in the tomb. Aud still to her vot'ry, dark Autumn, more dear Are thy loose-flowing locks, and thy diadem sear, Than aught, Spring bestows on the forest or field, Or aught, that the bright sun of Summer can yield. LINES Written with a pencil, at a favourite s?ot. Trix shower is past. The light breeze shakes The rain-drops from the tree, O'er the?pink meadow-crocus flit The butterfly and bee. ......... ?Google
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