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Yes, Autumn's gloom to me is dearer
Than their all cloudless skies. The wile Of Hope-life's darkly chequered vision,— Its passions, follies, pains, and fears; Its dimness and its quick transition,
Methinks, are emblemed in her tears, Her bright though fading hues, and even The tempests that deform her heaven.
By foreign hands his dying eyes were closed;
By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned.
He left his home with a bounding heart,
Such sun-bright beams came o'er him.
And a father's bodings-a mother's tears—
Might not weigh with the hopes that crowned them.
That mother's cheek is far paler now,
Than when she last caressed him; There's an added gloom on that father's brow, Since the hour when last he blessed him. Oh, that all human hopes should prove
Like the flowers that will fade to-morrow; And the cankering fears of anxious love Ever end in truth-and sorrow!
He left his home with a swelling sail,
Or the pennon above him streaming.
He should have died in his own loved land,
With friends and kindred near him;
Not have withered thus on a foreign strand,
Or the hearts he loved had wept him?
Then why repine? Can he feel the rays
Or share the griefs that may cloud the days'
No: his bark's at anchor-its sails are furled,-
FROM A PAINTING BY GUIDO IN THE DULWICH
HER golden ringlets float around her form