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TO A FRIEND, WITH SOME OIIINESE CHRYSANTHEMUMS. 
W. P. Palmer 
rilHE sunlight falls on hill and dale 
* With slanter beam and fainter glow, 
And wilder on the ruthless gale 
The woodnymphs pour their sylvan wo: 
Yet these fair forms of Orient race 
Still graced my garden’s blighted bowers, 
And lent to Autumn’s mournful face 
The charm of Summer’s rosy hours. 
When shivering seized the dying year, 
They shrunk not from the icy blast; 
But stayed, like funeral friends, to cheer 
The void from which the loved had passed, 
