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EMBER PICTURES.

IN the twilight of November,

When my fire is burning low,

And each faint and famished ember

Flickers with a dying glow,

Ah! how fondly I remember

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Summer scenes that come and go!

Far away my fancy flying

Sees a spectral camp-fire shine;

From the deeps around me lying

Breathes the perfume of the pine;

And of every sound that's sighing

Speaks the spirit unto mine,

Till I hear the rushing river,

Singing birds, and sighing trees,

That with mellow murmur quiver

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