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

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.

The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.

Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear

The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.

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

There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye; There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.