AUTUMN. Thomas Brerewood Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T124631 1073 K099398.000 Mendez, Moses. A collection of the most esteemed pieces of poetry: that have appeared for several years. With variety of originals, by the late Moses Mendez, Esq; and other contributors to Dodsley's collection. To which this is intended as a supplement. London printed for Richardson and Urquhart 1767 pp. 162-165. [8],320p. ; 8⁰.

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AUTUMN . BY MR. BREREWOOD . THO' the seasons must alter , ah ! yet let me find What all must confess to be rare , A female still cheerful , and faithful and kind , The blessings of autumn to share . Let one side of our cottage , a flourishing vine Overspread with its branches , and shade ; Whose clusters appear more transparent and fine , As its leaves are beginning to fade . When the fruit makes the branches bend down with its load , In our orchard surrounded with pales : In a bed of clean straw let our apples be stow'd , For a tart that in winter regales . When the vapours that rise from the earth in the morn Seem to hang on its surface like smoke , 'Till dispers'd by the sun that gilds over the corn , Within doors let us prattle and joke . But when we see clear all the hues of the leaves , And at work in the fields are all hands , Some in reaping the wheat , others binding the sheaves , Let us carelesly strole o'er the lands . How pleasing the sight of the toiling they make , To collect what kind Nature has sent ! Heaven grant we may not of their labour partake ; But , oh ! give us their happy content . And sometimes on a bank , under shade , by a brook , Let us silently sit at our ease , And there gaze on the stream , till the fish on the hook Struggles hard to procure its release . And now when the husbandman sings harvest home , And the corn's all got into the house ; When the long wish'd for time of their meeting is come , To frolic , and feast , and carouse : When the leaves from the trees are begun to be shed , And are leaving the branches all bare , Either strew'd at the roots , shrivell'd , wither'd , and dead , Or else blown to and fro in the air ; When the ways are so miry , that bogs they might seem , And the axle-tree's ready to break , While the waggoner whistles in stopping his team , And then claps the poor jades on the neck ; In the morning let's follow the cry of the hounds , Or the fearful young covey beset ; Which , tho' skulking in stubble and weeds on the grounds , Are becoming a prey to the net . Let's enjoy all the pleasure retirement affords , Still amus'd with these innocent sports , Nor once envy the pomp of fine ladies and lords , With their grand entertainments in courts . In the evening when lovers are leaning on stiles , Deep engag'd in some amorous chat , And 'tis very well known by his grin , and her smiles , What they both have a mind to be at ; To our dwelling , tho' homely , well-pleas'd to repair , Let our mutual endearments revive , And let no single action , or look , but declare , How contented and happy we live . Should ideas arise that may ruffle the soul , Let soft music the phantoms remove , For 'tis harmony only has force to controul , And unite all the passions in love . With her eyes but half open , her cap all awry , When the lass is preparing for bed ; And the sleepy dull clown , who sits nodding just by , Sometimes rouzes and scratches his head . In the night when 'tis cloudy and rainy , and dark , And the labourers snore as they lie , Not a noise to disturb us , unless a dog bark In the farm , or the village hard by . At the time of sweet rest , and of quiet like this , Ere our eyes are clos'd up in their lids , Let us welcome the season , and taste of that bliss , Which the sunshine and daylight forbids .