The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away.

This is the age of oddities let loose.

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.

No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.