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La fleur tombe en livrant ses parfums au zéphire,

A la vie, au soleil, ce sont là ses adieux; Moi, je meurs: et mon âme, au moment qu'elle expire, S'exhale comme un son triste et mélodieux.

DE LAMARTINE.

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WINTER.

'Tis done! dread Winter spreads its latest glooms, And reigns tremendous o'er the conquered year. How dead the vegetable kingdom lies!

How dumb the tuneful! Horror wide extends

His desolate domain. Behold, fond man!

See here thy pictured life; pass some few years,
Thy flowering Spring, thy Summer's ardent strength,
Thy sober Autumn fading into age;

And pale concluding Winter comes at last,
And shuts the scene.

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THOMSON.

DECEMBER.

No mark of vegetable life is seen;

No bird to bird repeats his tuneful call, Save the dark leaves of some rude evergreen;

Save the lone redbreast on the moss-grown wall.

SCOTT.

THE SEASONS.

WHEN snows descend, and robe the fields
In winter's bright array:
Touched by the sun the lustre fades,
And weeps itself away.

When Spring appears; when violets blow, And shed a rich perfume;

How soon the fragrance breathes its last, How short-liv'd is its bloom.

Fresh in the morn, the summer rose

Hangs withering ere 'tis noon;

We scarce enjoy the balmy gift,

But mourn the pleasure gone.

With gliding fire, an evening star
Streaks the autumnal skies;
Shook from the sphere, it darts away,

And in an instant dies.

Such are the charms that flush the cheek,

And sparkle in the eye;

So from the lovely finish'd form,

The transient graces fly.

To this the seasons as they roll,

Their attestation bring;

They warn the fair; their every round
Confirm the truth I sing.

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HERVEY.

CHOICE OF SEASONS.

WHO loves not Spring's voluptuous hours,
The carnival of birds and flowers?
Yet who would choose, however dear,
That Spring should revel all the year?
Who loves not Summer's splendid reign,
The bridal of the earth and main ?
Yet who would choose, however bright,
A dog-day noon without a night?
Who loves not Autumn's joyous round,
When corn, and wine, and oil abound?
Yet who would choose, however gay,
A year of unrenewed decay?

Who loves not Winter's awful form?
The sphere-born music of the storm?
Yet who would choose, how grand soever,
The shortest day to last for ever?

MONTGOMERY.

FLORA ALPHABETICA.

WHO CAN PAINT

LIKE NATURE?

CAN IMAGINATION BOAST,

AMID ITS GAY CREATION, hues like heRS?

OK CAN IT MIX THEM WITH THAT MATCHLESS SKILL,
AND LOSE THEM IN EACH OTHER, AS APPEARS
IN EV'RY BUD THAT BLOWS? IF FANCY THEN,
UNEQUAL, FAILS BENEATH THE PLEASING TASK,
AH! WHAT SHALL LANGUAGE DO?
TING'D WITH SO MANY COLOURS ?

AH, WHERE FIND WORDS

THOMSON.

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