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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?
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