AUTUMN—A DIRGE. 
The warm sun is failing, 
The bleak wind is wailing, 
The bare boughs are sighing, 
The pale flowers are dying, 
And the Year 
On the earth, her death-bed, 
In shroud of leaves, dead 
Is lying. 
Come, Months, come away, 
From November to May ; 
In your saddest array 
Follow the bier 
Of the dead, cold Year, 
And, like dim shadows, watch by her sepulchre. 
The chill rain is falling, 
The night-worm is crawling, 
The rivers are swelling, 
The thunder is knelling 
For the Year; 
The blithe swallows are flown, 
And the lizards, each gone 
To his dwelling. 
