Vapour and swear, cudgel, get drunk, and fight.
Then comes the ass-race. Let not wisdom frown,
If the
grave clerk look on, and now and then
Bestow a smile; for we may see, Alcanor,
In this untoward race the ways of life.
Are we not asses all? We start and run,
And eagerly we press to pass the goal,
And all to win a bauble, a lac'd hat.
Was not great Wolsey such? He ran the race,
And won the hat. What ranting politician,
What prating lawyer, what ambitious clerk,
But is an ass that gallops for a hat?
For what do Princes strive, but golden hats?
For diadems, whose bare and scanty brims
Will hardly keep the sunbeam from their eyes.
For what do Poets strive? a leafy hat,
Without or crown or brim, which hardly screens
The empty noddle from the fist of scorn,
Much less repels the critic's thund'ring arm.
And here and there intoxication too
Concludes the race. Who wins the hat, gets drunk.
Who wins a laurel, mitre, cap, or crown,
Is drunk as he. So Alexander fell,
So Haman, Cæsar, Spenser, Wolsey, James.
Now chilly ev'ning, in her grey coat clad, Advances from the east, and puts to flight The rear of day, girt with a zone of stars. The busy fair is ended. The rank booth Expels its beastly habitant the mob,
And Andrew's laughable conceit is hush'd.
Home reels the drunken clown, or stays to fight,
Nothing the cause, yet honour much concern'd.
Confusion reigns, uproar and loud misrule;
Distinctions cease, and still the oath, the scream,
The shout, the hoot, disturb the midnight ear
Of sober Cloe gone to bed betimes.
AH me! the golden year is fled. Behold
Gloomy and sad November, with a brow
Severe and clouded. Scarce a leaf sustains
His pestilential blast. The woods are stript,
And all their honours scatter'd in the vale.
Th' ambassador of surly Winter he,
And in his hand he bears the nipping frost.
Before his tyrant lord he scatters sleet,
And with a hideous frown bids Autumn speed,
And after her runs howling through the land.
The field has lost its verdure. All the pride
Of the sweet garden fades. Where now the rose,
The lupin, aster, balsam, or carnation?
Or where the lily with her snowy bells?
Where the gay jasmin, odorous syringa,
Graceful laburnum, or bloom-clad arbute?
Or if we stray, where now the summer's walk
So still and peaceable at early eve,
Along the shady lane, or through the wood,
To pluck the ruddy strawberry, or smell
The perfum❜d breeze that all the fragrance stole
Of honeysuckle, blossom'd beans, or clover?
Where now the blush of Spring, and the long day
Beloiter'd? cheerful May, that fill'd the woods
With music, scatter'd the green vale with flow'rs,
And hung a smile of universal joy
Upon the cheek of nature? Where blooms now
The king-cup or the daisy? Where inclines
The harebell or the cowslip? Where looks gay
The vernal furze with golden baskets hung?
Where captivates the sky-blue periwinkle
Under the cottage-eaves? Where waves the leaf,
Or rings with harmony the merry vale?
Day's harbinger no song performs, no song
Or solo anthem deigns sweet Philomel.
The golden woodpecker laughs loud no more.
The pie no longer prates; no longer scolds
The saucy jay. Who sees the goldfinch now
The feather'd groundsel pluck, or hears him sing
In bower of apple blossoms perch'd? Who sees
The chimney-haunting swallow skim the pool,
And quaintly dip, or hears his early song
Twitter'd to dawning day? All, all are hush'd. bee her merry toil foregoes,
Nor seeks her nectar, to be sought in vain.
Only the solitary robin sings,
And perch'd aloft with melancholy note
Chants out the dirge of Autumn; cheerless bird,
That loves the brown and desolated scene,
And scanty fare of Winter. Let me weep
With you, ye Muses, and with you, ye fair,
Chief mourner at the grave of her we love,
Expiring nature. For ye sought with me
The sober twilight of the shelving wood,
With me forsook the glare of sultry day,
To tread the serious gloom Religion loves,
And where she smiles and wipes her dewy eye,
With Meditation walking hand in hand.
Ye too have lov'd and heartily approv'd
The winding foot-path, and its sudden curve, And swarded wain-way like cathedral aisleAnd heard me comment on the leaf, the branch, The arm, the girth of the paternal oak.
Ye too have lov'd the long frequented brow,
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