Methinks there's something sad in thy decay,
Oh! merry-hearted Autumn! like a man
Whose head is in his prime turned gray,
The red cheek in a little hour made wan.

Poet! doth no regrets o'ercast thy dream,

To see the good old Autumn thus depart?
And gloom fast darkening Summer's golden gleam,
E'en as afflictions change the cheerful heart.

E'en as I follow to his lowly bed,

The ashes of some kind, and well-beloved friend, So, with a saddened eye and mournful tread,

I see thee, Autumn! to oblivion tend.

Yet beautiful are thy last fleeting days,

When glows the hectic on thy dying cheek;

When leaves are red, clouds bright, and hangs the haze In many a colored fold, and gaudy streak.

I hear the voice of Autumn! the deep dirge
Hymned plaintively within his ruined hall,
Its solemn sound comes like the beating surge,
Or thunder of the distant water-fall!