Autumn gale! sweet autumn gale!
Sing with me a sober wail;
Summer loves the melting song;
Lightsome airs to spring belong;
Old December shouts with glee,
O'er wassail cup and revelry:
Them I note not; thee I call
To my sober festival.

Haste with sighs to woo the rose,
Blooming not till summer's close;
Seek her bower, but O beware
Not to romp or frolic there!
Lest she lose her silken dress,
And her blushing loveliness -
Suck her fragrant breath, and bring
Odours on thy flutt'ring wing.

Hither, hither, autumn gale!
Turn thy flight, and lightly sail.
I see yon sweet bird's quiv'ring throat,
But scarcely hear his liquid note:
Turn thy flight, and to mine ear
Bring the music loud and clear.
Nearer - haste thee! - nearer still -
Now, go wander where you will.

Idle breeze! - that plaintive sigh
Tells me thou art lingering nigh.
Where the fruit hangs golden now,
Roughly blow, and bend the bough;
Or, to please my wayward will,
Shake the branch - 'tis easier still -
And drop the fruit, that's ripe and sweet,
On the green grass at my feet.

Autumn gale! - away, away!
We will seek yon ruin gray;
Where old Time hath hung his pall
O'er roofless aisle and ivied wall.
Ceasing now the wail you love
O'er fading flower and leafless grove,
Lift that dusky pall, and show
The dim forgotten tales below.
Fancy lingers thereabout,
To help your pleasant story out.

Night is coming; flit away,
Till the dawn of cheerful day;
Braid your loose hair round your brow
With scarlet poppies, drooping low,
That the dewy flowers may weep
Over your eyelids as you sleep;
Fold your wing, and hang your head,
And sink into your leafy bed.

What! returning! restless breeze!
Not so near, sir, if you please.
Hence! away! thou specious foe!
All too like some friends I know;
Boon companions, warm and gay,
While the golden sunbeams stay;
Rude, and bitter cold, like thee,
In darkness and adversity.

So ends an 'Evening Song,' in the library at 'Old Court,' which Grace sings without music to one of Purcell's airs.