<"Dust on thy mantle! Dust, Bright summer, on thy livery of green! A tarnish, as of rust, Dims thy late-brillant sheen: And
thy young glories-leaf, and bud, and flower- Change cometh over them with every hour.
"Thee hath the August sun
Looked on with hot, and fierce, and brassy face;
And still and lazily run,
Scarce whispering in their pace,
The half-dried rivulets, that lately sent
A shout of gladness up, as on they went.>