A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.

The groves were God's first temples.

Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.