The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
Is not thy home among the flowers?
I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.