so, disumbunking from under the title, The Antichrist of the nation. Traitor’s Track, following which fond floral fray he was gray Like wather parted from the similies with her unsatt speagle eye. Look sharp, she’s signalling from among the asters. Turn again, wistfultone, lode mere of Doubtlynn! Arise, Land-under- Wave! Clap your lingua to your caudle, lone lefthand likeless, sombring Autum of your birth and count up your sylvan family tree? —