NOVEMBER.

Low the leaves lie in the forest; on the damp earth, brown and chill, Gather near the evening shadows. Hark! the wind is sorrowing still. Vanished are the pine-crowned mountains, hidden in a dusky cloud; See the rain, it falleth ever from the wan and dreary sky: Rusheth on the swollen streamlet, wildly whirling, foaming by; And the branches, leafless waving, in the Fall wind low are bowed. See, the golden-rod no longer bends its yellow-plumèd head, By the roadside lies it faded—'mid the grasses—pale and dead; While alone the stately mullein rears its brown and withered crest. Quiet skies of early Autumn mirrors now the lake no more, But its waters struggle fiercely, laden storm-clouds flying o'er, And the rain it falleth ever, and the wind will never rest. Once the hills were clad in scarlet: vanished all their beauty now; Perished now the crown of glory that encircled then their brow; Low the crimson leaves are lying, and the withered boughs are chill; Faded are the purple daisies, and the little pool looks sad, Missing now the gentle flowers that once made it bright and glad; For the rain it falleth ever, and the wind is never still. Closer fall the gloomy shadows, and the forests drearier seem, Still the leaden clouds are flying, rusheth wilder yet the stream; And the reckless wind is telling now a wild and fearful tale, While the trees all listen trembling, and the mullein bows its head, And the dusky lake grows angrier, and the dark pool mourns its dead; For the rain it falleth ever, and the winds but louder wail.