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66 SONGS FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE.
The verdure now has pass'd away,
With which the forest late was clad; The leaves have each a yellow ray, All brightly sad.
And o'er the shrub that hangs its head,
And o'er the sweet-brow'd blossom too, The Autumn's spirit seems to shed A chasten'd hue.
A murm'ring strain is waking now, And chilly zephyrs start around, While the ripe fruit, from every bough, Falls to the ground.
A stillness gathers o'er the hill,
As in the chamber of the dead; For Summer's throbbing pulse is still, Its life all fled.
And Autumn, o'er her sombre bier,
Hangs a dark wreath of tangled vines, And drooping flowers, all faded, sear, Which Sadness twines.
Autumn, thy charms are like the smile On the cold features of the dead! . They leave a soothing solace, while Our tears are shed.