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.

Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes: Pique her and soothe in turn-soon Passion crowns thy hopes.

As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.

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

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.

My altars are the mountains and the ocean.