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BY MRS. E. C. STEDMAN.
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Speed on! speed on, to your Southern home,
Ye who ’mid the fleecy clouds may roam!
The hoarse voice of Winter comes fast on the breeze—
Its roaring is heard in the tops of the trees,
And swift as your flight, is the march of Time—
Away, away, to a milder clime!
Ye’re wearied with seeking in vain for food,