September
Behold the year's fruition! Hedges high,
And little mounds, where song-nymphs shelter shy,
Are bright with berries. Children shout for glee,
As the hedge-bramble yields them a rich store:
And ruddy apples on the orchard tree
Hang o'er the stream, or by the peasant's door.
The corn is garner`d. Down the pensive moor
The swallows glance and wheel, ere they depart
For warmer regions: kilfully they dart
O`er rock and lichen'd ruin. Here will I
Sit now and watch them. Songs of praise proceed
From grateful souls, whose hearts are beating high
By the farm-house on many a shaven mead
For harvest mercies sent in time of need.
