The bloom is fading from the heather,
The gorse has scattered half its gold,
And, presaging a ruder weather,
September's winds blow keen and cold.
They've touched Bellaise's wood of story,
They've scorched the fern above the rill;
The ashes of the summer's glory
Smoulder and die on yonder hill.
The year's decaying fires to-morrow
Warm them to transient life once more,
But cannot stay the night of sorrow
That spreads its shadows o'er the moor.
The vast gray stones that bridge the river,
And choke the valleys all around,
Are vaster and more gray than ever,
In concord with the saddened ground.
In kindlier climes the summer flying
Leaves half her smiles upon the plains j
The red fruit hides the leaf that's dying,
And yellow waggons crown the lanes.
But they are gone, our laughing hours,
We have nor sheaves nor orchards here ;
And brief the sun and few the flowers
That cheer our mountain's sullen year.