November’s sky is chill and drear, November’s leaf is red and sear: Late, gazing down the steepy linn That hems our little garden in, Low in its dark and narrow glen You scarce the rivulet might ken, So thick the tangled greenwood grew So feeble thrilled the streamlet through: Now, murmuring hoarse, and frequent seen Through bush and briar, no longer green, An angry brook, it sweeps the glade, Brawls over rock and wild cascade, And foaming brown, with doubled speed, Hurries its waters to the Tweed. No longer Autumn’s glowing red Upon our forest hills is shed; No more, beneath the evening beam, Fair Tweed reflects their purple gleam: ~~ In meek despondency they eye The withered sward and wintry sky, And far beneath their summer hill, Stray sadly by Glenkinnon’s rill: The shepherd shifts his mantle’s fold, And wraps him closer from the cold; His dogs no merry circles wheel, But, shivering, follow at his heel; A cowering glance they often cast, As deeper moans the gathering blast. ~~ But vainly, vainly may he shine, Where glory weeps o’er Nelson’s shrine; And vainly pierce the solemn gloom, That shrouds, O Pitt, thy hallowed tomb! ~~ It will not be—it may not last – The vision of enchantment’s past: Like frostwork in the morning ray The fancied fabric melts away; ~~ Prompt on unequal tasks to run, Thus Nature disciplines her son: Meeter, she says, for me to stray, And waste the solitary day, from: marmion- A tale of flodden field by Walter Scott_ www2.hn.psu.edu/faculty/jmanis/w-scott/marmion.pdf
Posted on: Tue, 26 Nov 2013 09:19:09 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015