THE WILD ASTEE. 
Wheist Autumn winds, with mournful tone, 
And many a fitful sigh. 
Speak of the Summer pass’d and gone. 
And dry leaves round us lie. 
We mourn to see the faded fiowers. 
All withering on the stalk. 
And we too sigh, when through their bowers. 
In pensive mood, we walk. 
We grieve to think the snows will fall 
O’er each once lovely head. 
And spread a cold white funeral pall 
Upon their lowly bed. 
But while we sigh, a lovely gem 
Attracts our wondering sight. 
And clustering round their parent stem. 
Is many a form of light. 
And till November’s cruel theft 
I 
Each trembling leaf shall tear. 
Which fair October’s fingers left, 
They’ll gleam in beauty there. 
Yes, like an old and trusty friend. 
Who, when misfortune lowers, 
WiU still in kindness o’er us bend, 
And drop his tears with ours. 
The lovely Astee wears a smile. 
That drives our cares away. 
And says, the flowers but rest awhile, 
To bloom another day. 
( 89 ) 
