Lines Written On The Sixth Of September.

Ill-fated hour! oft as thy annual reign     Leads on th' autumnal tide, my pinion'd joys     Fade with the glories of the fading year;     "Remembrance wakes, with all her busy train,"     And bids affection heave the heart-drawn sigh     O'er the cold tomb, rich with the spoils of death,     And wet with many a tributary tear!     Eight times has each successive season sway'd     The fruitful sceptre of our milder clime     Since my loved----died! but why, ah! why     Should melancholy cloud my early years?     Religion spurns earth's visionary scene,     Philosophy revolts at misery's chain:     Just Heaven recall'd its own; the pilgrim call'd     From human woes: from sorrow's rankling worm--     Shall frailty then prevail?     Oh! be it mine     To curb the sigh which bursts o'er Heaven's decree;     To tread the path of rectitude--that when     Life's dying ray shall glimmer in the frame,     That latest breath I may in peace resign,     "Firm in the faith of seeing thee and God."