Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

Follow thou thy choice.

These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.