Crown'd with the sickle and the wheaten sheaf, While Autumn nodding o'er the yellow plain Comes jovial on, the Doric reed once more, Well pleased, I tune. Whatever the wintry frost Nitrous prepared, the various-blossom'd Spring Put in white promised forth, and Summer suns Concocted strong, rush boundless now to view, Full, perfect all, and swell my glorious theme. * * * * * Hence from the busy, joy-resounding fields In cheerful error let us tread the maze Of Autumn, unconfined; and taste, revived, The breath of orchard big with bending fruit. Obedient to the breeze and beating ray, From the deep-loaded bough a mellow shower Incessant melts away. The juicy pear Lies in a soft profusion scatter'd round. A various sweetness swells the gentle race, By Nature's all-refining hand prepared; Of tempered sun, and water, earth, and air, In ever-changing composition mix'd. Such, falling frequent through the chiller night, The fragrant stores, the wide projected heaps Of apples, which the lusty-handed year, Innumerous, o'er the blushing orchard shakes. [Illustration: AUTUMN.] WINTER. [Illustration: Letter S.] See, Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train-- Vapours, and clouds, and storms. Be these my theme, These--that exalt the soul to solemn thought And heavenly musing. Welcome, kindred glooms; Congenial horrors, hail: with frequent foot, Pleased have I, in my cheerful morn of life, When nursed by careless solitude I lived, And sung of nature with unceasing joy; Pleased have I wander'd through your rough domain, Trod the pure virgin snows, myself as pure; Heard the winds roar, and the big torrent burst, Or seen the deep-fermenting tempest brew'd In the grim evening sky. * * * * * Nature! great parent! whose unceasing hand Rolls round the seasons of the changeful year, How mighty, how majestic are thy works! With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul, That sees astonish'd, and astonish'd sings! Ye, too, ye winds! that now begin to blow With boisterous sweep, I raise my voice to you. Where are your stores, ye powerful beings, say, Where your aerial magazines reserved To swell the brooding terrors of the storm? In what far distant region of the sky, Hush'd in deep silence, sleep ye when 'tis calm? * * * * *