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“ Fallen leaves, that lie
Like crimson carpets all around.”

The leaves which we are about submitting to our readers were gathered in the hope of their not fading before the autumnal season. There is something melancholy in the very thought of such a fate, and yet amid the many beautiful and classical productions of the day, how can we reasonably expect, that our leaves could mix with those

" Of tenderest tint."

They in their pride and beauty have put forth all their charms, and with their rich perfume, scent the world of letters ! Authors may be likened unto our forest trees—they send forth their leaves into the world, and thus one can be compared to the oak, clothed in its deep crimson robes, king of the woods. Another like the maple, in its golden leaves, adorning the woodlands, with their rich and sunny tints. Another unto the gum, with its bloody hue, like the immolated victim of tyranny, bleeding from every pore, stands fit emblem of the tragic muse.

A fourth, like the classic elm, comes before us in all its picturesque beauty. A fifth, assumes the deep rich foliage of the chestnut. A sixth, like the locust, comes clothed in its tiny, though beautiful verdure, and might be called the emblem of poetry. A seventh may be likened unto the cypress, with

" Its slender leaf."

Others may be compared to the spiral pine, and the cedar, in their eternal green, and these are the bards immortal!

And by what emblem shall we appear amongst these “ clustering trees ?" Let us see—ah! the Ash, its leaves are like ours, humble and plain to view-but

Hiding the silver underneath each leaf.”

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