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When hollyhocks droop low the head,
And dahlias litter path and bed,

Thou bloomest bright in all their stead,
Chrysanthemum ;

And back recallest their beauty fled,

Chrysanthemum.

O loved not for thy sake alone,

Chrysanthemum ;

Not for a beauty all thine own,

Chrysanthemum ;

For fair blooms to the springtime known,
For bright hues to the summer shown,
For memories dear of flowerets flown,
Chrysanthemum ;

I love thee, blossomer alone,

Chrysanthemum.

William Cox Bennett.

MY

A SEPTEMBER ROBIN.

eyes are full, my silent heart is stirred, Amid these days so bright

Of ceaseless warmth and light;

Summer that will not die,

Autumn, without one sigh

O'er sweet hours passing by;

Cometh that tender note

Out of thy tiny throat,

Like grief, or love, insisting to be heard,
O little plaintive bird!

No need of word;

Well know I all your tale,- forgotten bird!
Soon you and I together

Must face the winter weather,
Remembering how we sung
Our primrose fields among,
In days when life was young;
Now, all is growing old,

And the warm earth's a-cold;

Still with brave heart we'll sing on, little bird,

Sing only. Not one word.

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Hauntingly, a note of woe
Echoes from thy tremolo,
Mourning beauty fled.

As I listen, fancy strays
Backward through the summer ways
Prankt with nodding flowers;

And anon the fragrant night,
Rich in song and rare delight,
Opes her musky bowers.

Glow-worms glimmer, fireflies speed,
Lighting Puck and Mustard Seed
And their pixie crew;

Then the darkness flees, and morn,
Peeping o'er the poppied corn,
Becks to pleasure new.

Dimpled daisies, laughing, toss
Kisses o'er the dewy moss

At my wayward feet;

While the lays of bees and birds,
Sweeter than all caroled words
In soft chorus meet.

Rising from the lap of Noon
Comes a drowsy breeze to croon
Mid the new-mown hay;

As thou pipest, thus I fare,

Fancy led to visitors rare,

Down the summer day.

When the winds from Arctic waves,

Wailing o'er the flower graves,

Glass each shuddering pool,

Minstrel, flee thy frozen nest,
I shall wait thee; be my guest

On the hearth at Yule!

OCTOBER.

-Eli Shepherd.

T is no joy to me to sit

IT

On dreamy summer eves,

When silently the timid moon.

Kisses the sleeping leaves,

And all things through the fair hush'd earth

Love, rest—but nothing grieves.

Better I like old Autumn

With his hair toss'd to and fro,

Firm striding o'er the stubble fields

When the equinoctials blow.

When shrinkingly the sun creeps up
Through misty mornings cold,

And Robin on the orchard hedge

Sings cheerily and bold;

While heavily the frosted plum

Drops downwards on the mold;--
And as he passes, Autumn

Into earth's lap does throw

Brown apples gay in a game of play,

As the equinoctials blow.

When the spent year its carol sinks

Into a humble psalm,

Asks no more for the pleasure draught,
But for the cup of balm,

And all its storms and sunshine-bursts
Controls to one brave calm,

Then step by step walks Autumn,

With steady eyes that show

Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year,

While the equinoctials blow.

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