and the last that we shall give completes the picture, which, though overcharged in its colouring, must be allowed, we think, to reflect some lineaments of the truth:—

"That time of year thou may'st in me behold

When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang

Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.

In me thou seest the twilight of such day,

As after sun-set fadeth in the west——

In me thou seest the glowing of such fire,

That on the ashes of his youth doth lie."

Son. 73.