WHAT means this silent, solitary gloom?
All nature in her dishabille appears;
Contracted flow'rets yield no sweet perfume,
And ev'ry grove a dismal aspect wears.
Nor do the joys of Autumn glad our plains;
Our landscapes are in sable weeds array'd;
No jocund sound is heard among the swains,
And nought but sighs from each dejected maid.
Rude Eurus echoing through the distant woods,
With harsh, discordant note, augments our wo;
While rains, impetuous, from the bursting clouds,
Our verdant walks and pleasure-grounds o'erflow.
Incumber'd by their foliage now, the trees,
With leaves, untimely dropp'd, bestrew the ground:
Because Matilda's presence does not please,
All bleak and dismal seem the fields around.
Her placid looks bespoke a mind serene,
Each feature wore an unaffected smile;
Her's was the pow'r to beautify the scene,
And sweetly gay the languid hours beguile.
Her count'nance milder than an April morn,
When Phoebus first emits his infant rays;
More radiant beauties do her mind adorn,
Than ere were brighten'd by his noon-tide blaze.
Fair Virtue, cloth'd in all it's native sweets,
Celestial precepts in her breast inlaid;
And oft, as friendly intercourse invites,
In softest accents from her lips convey'd.
But now she's gone, a sullen sadness reigns!
Absorb'd in grief we still her absence mourn,
Or beg that heaven would smile upon our plains,
And grant a blessing in her swift return.