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BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR.
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The Scorpion’s stars crawl down behind the sun,
And when he drops below the verge of day,
The glittering fangs, their fervid courses run,
Cling to his skirts and follow him away.
Then, ere the heels of flying Capricorn
Have touched the western mountain’s fading rim,
I mark, stern Taurus, through the twilight gray