BY R. H. STODDARD.
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The days are growing chill, the Summer stands
Drooping, like Niobe with clasped hands,
Mute o’er the faded flowers, her children lost,
Slain by the arrows of the early frost!
The clouded Heaven above is pale and gray,
The misty Earth below is wan and drear,
And baying Winds chase all the leaves away,
As cruel hounds pursue the trembling deer,