November: A pastoral poem / William Perfect

November: A pastoral poem

Ah! whither, bright god of the spring,
Are thy rays nature-chearing withdrawn?
The warblers that stretch the gay wing,
No longer enliven the lawn.
Ye breezes of softness, ah where
Are your zephyrs of fragrance exil'd?
No longer you sport through the air,
On the bosom of aether so mild.

Ye streams that ran purling along,
From your banks your own Flora is fled;
And Philomel issues no song
Thro' the verdure that cover'd her head.
The bleating of lambs from the fold,
From the valley no longer ascends;
No tale of soft passion is told
Where the beech its broad branches extends.

Ah! where is the couch of green moss,
Which I with my Delia have found,
When with pleasure we wander'd across
The daisy-embroidered ground.
No more to the close-twisted bow'r,
With the fair one delighted I run?
In coolness to pass the fond hour,
Eluding the heat of the sun.

For nature so pensive is grown,
Her tears steep in dew all the plain,
With grief I attend to her moan,
But my sorrows attend her in vain.
November, the tomb of the year,
Usurps his tyrannical stand,
His glooms in succession appear,
In succession stalk over the land.

But where does my Celadon rove,
The friend of my undisguis'd breast?
And where is that empress of love,
My Delia, with innocence bless'd?
Can November to Celadon bring
The horrors which friendship annoy?
In that bosom forgetfulness spring,
Where friendship has treasur'd each joy?

Can Delia, whose heart is the seat
Where love ever faithful is stor'd,
Too cruel desert my retreat,
By winter's rough visit explor'd?
No, Celadon, no, to complain
Of the virtues enthron'd in your heart,
Would pierce friendship's side with a pain,

'Twere ungrateful in me to impart;

For friendship, most pure in her form,
In lustre congenial is thine,
Unruffled, unhurt by the storm,
Tho' the troubles of life shall combine.
Let winter attempt to destroy
The comforts which friendship can bring,
Come, Celadon, come, we'll enjoy,
And soften November to Spring.

Nor let me of Delia complain,
Tho' the trees all their verdure resign,
Tho' the north bids his tyrannies reign,
And Phoebus for clouds cannot shine.
She comes — in her presence is love,
Her eyes are the heralds of grace;
November no longer shall prove
Of nature the squalid disgrace.

~~
William Perfect (1737-1809)
from Sentimental Magazine, November 1773

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