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.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join, The innumerable caravan which moves, To that mysterious realm where each shall take, His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged by his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed, By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch, About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

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

Ah! never shall the land forget.

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.