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"Farewell, thy destiny is done, Thy ebbing sands we tell, Blended and set with centuries gone - Thou dying year, farewell. Gifts from thy hand - Spring's joyous leaves, And Summer's breathing flowers, Autumn's bright fruit and bursting sheaves - These blessings have been ours. They pass with thee and now they seem Like gifts from fairy spells Or like some sweet remembered dream - We bid those gifts farewell." - Mrs. Jones, Thou Dying Year, Farewell Montreal Vindicator, January 6, 1829 |
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