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Then forth to the golden-crowned corn-held pass on. 
Where the sickle is merrily plied. 
And, flashing out brightly beneath the wann sun. 
It tells where the poppies have died,— 
Where the petals of scarlet will wither and fade. 
For the young flowers in death by the ripe com are laid. 
They fall in their beauty ere rent by a storm. 
They are gone, ere the wandering bee 
Hath nestled within e’en one delicate fonn 
Now lying all wan on the lea. 
Alas ! for the young and the beautiful now. 
The fairest must oft ’neath the keen sickle bow. 
Come now to the Forest, for Autumn is there. 
She is painting its millions of leaves 
With colours so varied, so rich, and so rai'e. 
That the eye scarce her cunning believes; 
She tinges and changes each leaf o’er and o’er, 
And flings it to earth when ’twill vary no more. 
The glorious Cedars she ever in vain 
Tries to dress in chamelion hue. 
For- they brave all her arts, and the verdure retain 
Of their Spring-time the whole Winter through. 
And the sturdy Scots Fir lifts its dark-crested head 
Unchanged o’er the path where the brown leaves are s})rcad. 
