FIRST OF DECEMBER. Now, save the long, ls?k roots, that swing From the rude fissure, where they cling, Now on the bleak waste frown alone The massive walls of cold grey stone; Where oft the midnight robbers prowl, And start to hear the shrieking owl. Mute is every tuneful strain, That warbled from the woodland train. No more, on dewy pinions borne, The lark gives morrow to the morn; No more, its fitful shadow seen, Skimming the annshine of the green, The vanish'd swallow, twittering, leaves Its nest of clay beneath the caves. No more resound from hush to bush The gay notes of the sprightly thrush. In other climes, the nightingale Tells to the moon his tender tale: Of all the tribes, whose music sweet Lov'd answering Echo to repeat, The robin only to the dell Yet falters forth his weak farewell. Lingers the long and dreary night; Scarce the dim and dubious light Peeps thro' the severing mists, that chill, Coldly blue, yon eastern hill. ......... ?Google
�
