When latest Autumn spreads her evening veil,
   And the grey mists from these dim waves arise,
   I love to listen to the hollow sighs,
Thro’ the half-leafless wood that breathes the gale:
For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale,
   Oft seems to fleet before the poet’s eyes;
   Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies,
As of night-wanderers, who their woes bewail!
Here, by his native stream, at such an hour,
   Pity’s own Otway I methinks could meet,
        And hear his deep sighs swell the sadden’d wind!
O Melancholy!––such thy magic power,
   That to the soul these dreams are often sweet,
       And soothe the pensive visionary mind!

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