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[0] => Autumn departs—but still his mantle's fold / Rests on the groves of noble Somerville, / Beneath a shroud of russet dropped with gold / Tweed and his tributaries mingle still; / Hoarser the wind, and deeper sounds the rill, / Yet lingering notes of silvan music swell, / The deep-toned cushy, and the red-breast shrill; / And yet some tints of summer splendour tell / When the broad sun sinks down on Ettrick's western fell.
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