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SONGS FROM THE ST. LAWRENCE.
We may read in lines all sere, At the closing of the year,
Passing away.
On the flashing river's tide, Where the sportive sunbeams glide, In its rocky, winding course, We may list in accents hoarse,
Passing away.
Through the vines around our eaves, Deep'ning through the changing leaves. Comes this whisper strangely sad, As the summer's glories fade,
Passing away.
Gleaming in their transient light, All things beautiful and bright, All things dearest to the heart, Speak in tones that bid us start,
Passing away.
Sweet to think there is a clime Far beyond the change of time, Whose rich scenery, sweetly fair, Never may this impress wear,
Nor pass away! |
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