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Rh

The mantling Clematis, whose feathery bowers Waved in festoons with Nightshade's purple flowers, The silver weed, whose corded fillets wove Round thy pale rind, even as deceitful love Of mercenary beauty would engage The dotard fondness of decrepit age; All these, that during Summer's halcyon days With their green canopies conceal'd thy sprays, Are gone for ever; or disfigured, trail Their sallow relics in the Autumnal gale; Or o'er thy roots, in faded fragments tost, But tell of happier hours, and sweetness lost! —Thus in Fate's trying hour, when furious storms Strip social life of Pleasure's fragile forms,