Fields, Orchards, Gardens

Sonnet on September
by William Mann

Amidst the songs of morn, and harvest mirth,
Soft-eye'd December on our plains descends;
Rejoicing Nature gladdens at her birth,
And sweet serenity her steps attends.
Rich magazines of plenty round her rise,
Creation sings the bounties of her Lord;
Fields, orchards, gardens, teem with full supplies,
And earth appears like paradise restor'd.
O plenteous scenes! I'd have ye always last,
O prospects grand! I'd have ye always stay;
Oh! how I wish that troublous times were past,
Oh ! how I long for the millenial day.
Father of mercies, paradise restore,
Let wars, and wants, and woes be known no more.