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Rh given; for very many of the English poets seem to have felt a November chill at their fingers' ends when alluding to the subject.

The writers of France tell much the same tale of Autumn, across the Channel.

says Millevoye, in his touching lament.

writes Delille; and again,

And again,

St. Lambert tells us of fogs and mists, in his sing-song verses, his “ormeaux, et rameaux, et hameaux.”

Observe that he was the especial poet of the seasons, and bound to fidelity in their behalf; and yet, painting Autumn during the vintage, he already covers the sky with clouds, and talks of “frimas.”