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Gone from her cheek is the summer bloom,
And the spirit that sate on her soft blue eye.
Like slaves they obeyed her, in height of power,
'Tis woman alone, with a finer heart,
ON SEEING SOME LATE AUTUMN
Those few pale Autumn flowers.
And why ?—they are the last!
Pale flowers,—pale perishing flowers!
On rapid—rapid wings.
Last hours with parting dear ones
Last tears in silence shed,
Last looks of dying friends.
Who but would fain compress
Must leave us—and for aye?
Oh! precious, precious moments,
Pale flowers—pale perishing flowers,
Tell me of change and death !—
Anon. HAS SORROW THY YOUNG DAYS SHADED?
Has sorrow thy young days shaded,
As clouds o'er the morning fleet?
That even in sorrow were sweet!
Each feeling that once was dear?
I'll weep with thee, tear for tear.
Has love to that soul so tender
Been like our. Lagenian mine,
All over the surface shine?
Allured by the gleam that shone,
Like love, the bright one is gone.
Has hope, like the bird in the story,
That flitted from tree to tree
Has hope been that bird to thee?
On branch after branch alighting,
And when nearest and most inviting,
If thus the sweet hours have fleeted
When sorrow herself looked bright;
That led thee along so light:
Each feeling that once was dear,
I'll weep with thee tear for tear.
Then whilst on the waters I mutely gaze,
I think of the pleasures of other days;
And the faces, and forms, so sadly dear,
And the words I have heard—but no more can hear:
And the tales that can never again be told,
And the pressure of hands—that now are cold