Thou frigid tyrant, dark and stern November!
We shrink before thee, and shall long remember
Thy levin fires, untimely thunder volleys,
That in dread tones rebuked our crimes and follies.
Thy scowling eyes through veiling cloud are glaring
On the pale face of Nature rudely baring,
Her shivering form her leafy garments strewing
O'er field and wood-discoloured heaps of ruin.
Earth's blasted treasures shrunken, blackened lie
On many a field beneath thy cruel eye;
Red grave-yards swell o'er many little heaps-
Her buried treasures the pale mother weeps.
The factory wheels-too oft the wheels of life-
Stand still; and pining wants and woes are rife;
On the cold hearth, and by the naked bed,
Gaunt misery cowering sits-half-warmed, half-fed.
Friend Jonathan is just as fierce and spiteful-
The braggadocio would be quite delightful-
But loss of blood, and jaundiced bile, poor fellow,
Have made him giddy, and all objects yellow.
Thou drear November! in thy reign we saw
A press-blown clamour overcrow the law-
A secret conclave trample Justice down,
Beneath the shelter of Victoria's crown.
But now let rigours of the season move
To generous sympathy and deeds of love:
So that the poor have cause long to remember
With gratitude even thee, dark stern November.