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Pouring new glory on the autumn woods, And dipping in warm light the pillared clouds, Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate
Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crim soned,
And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
And merrily, with oft-repeated stroke,
O what a glory doth this world put on
He shall so hear the solemn hymn, that Death
To his long resting-place without a tear.
WHEN winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.
O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods The embracing sunbeams chastely play, And gladden these deep solitudes.
Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The crystal icicle is hung.