Mary E Mannix

Welcome, ye sad dirges of November, When Indian summer drops her brilliant crown All withered, as in clinging mantle brown She floats, away to die beneath the leaves; Pressed are the grapes, gathered the latest sheaves; O wailing winds! how can we but remember The loved and lost? O ceaseless monotones! Hearing your plaints, counting your weary moans Like voices of the dead, like broken sighs From stricken souls who long for Paradise, We will not slight the message that ye bear, Nor check a pitying thought, nor guide a prayer. They have departed, we must still remember; Welcome, ye sad, sad dirges of November!

FUNERAL HYMN.

From the French of Theodore Nisard