NOVEMBER.
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 grim precursor of the storm,
The generous Briton's foe, dull, scowling, dark November!
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 grim precursor of the storm,
The generous Briton's foe, dull, scowling, dark November!
