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84 LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. AUTUMN. HAS it come, the time to fade? And with a murmur'd sigh, The Maple, in his scarlet robe, Was the first to make reply; And the queenly Dahlias droop'd Upon their thrones of state, The frost-king, with his baleful kiss, Had well forestall'd their fate. Hydrangia, on her telegraph A hurried signal traced Of dire and dark conspiracy, That Summer's realm menaced; Then quick the proud exotic peers In consternation fled, And refuge in their green-house sought Before the day of dread. The vine that o'er my casement climb'd And cluster'd day by day, I count its leaflets every morn, See, how they fade away; And, as they withering one by one Forsake their parent tree, I call each sere and yellow leaf A buried friend to me. Put on they mourning, said my soul, And, with a tearful eye, Walk softly 'mid the many graves Where thy companions lie. The violet, like a loving babe, When vernal suns were new, That met thee with a soft, blue eye, And lips all bathed in dew; LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY. 85 The lily, as a timid bride, While summer suns were fair, That put her snowy hand in thine, To bless thee for thy care; The trim and proud anemone, The daisy from the vale, The purple lilac towering high To guard his sister pale; The ripen'd rose, where are they now? But from the rifled bower A voice came forth, "take heed to note Thine own receding hour, And let the strange and silver hair That o'er thy forehead strays, Be as a monitor, to tell The autumn of thy days." TO AN ABSENT DAUGHTER. WHERE art thou, bird of song? Brightest one and dearest? Other groves among, Other nests thou cheerest; Sweet thy warbling skill To each ear that heard thee, But 't was sweetest still To the heart that rear'd thee. Lamb, where dost thou rest? On stranger-bosoms lying? Flowers, thy path that drest, All uncropp'd are dying; Streams where thou didst roam Murmur on without thee, Love'st thou still thy home? Can thy mother doubt thee? 8