priety's self with scornful eye
And gilt-edged Fashion would pass me by
To know that sometimes I'm dying to be
The romp, the rover, the same old girl.

Like Summer.

November? 'tis a summer's day!
For tropic airs are blowing
As soft as whispered roundelay
From unseen lips that seem to say
To feathered songsters going
To sunnier, southern climes afar,
"Stay where you are--stay where you are!"

And other tokens glad as these
Declare that Summer lingers:
Round latent buds still hum the bees,
Slow fades the green from forest trees
Ere Autumn's artist fingers
Have touched the landscape, and instead
Brought out the amber, brown, and red.

The invalid may yet enjoy
His favorite recreation,
Gay, romping girl, unfettered boy
In outdoor sports the time employ,
And happy consummation
Of prudent plans the farmer know
Ere wintry breezes round him blow.

And they by poverty controlled--
Good fortune shall betide them
As scenes of beauty they behold,
And seem to revel in the gold
Which Plutus has denied them;
For, ah! the poor from want's despair
Oft covet wealth they never share.

Sheridan's Last Ride.

While Phoebus lent his hottest rays
To signalize midsummer days,
I stood in that far-famed enclosure
By thousands visited,
Where, in the stillness of reposure,
Are grouped battalions dead.

Where, round each simple burial stone,
The grass for decades twain has grown,
Protecting them in dreamless slumber
Who perished long ago,
The multitudes defying number,
A part of war's tableau.

Along the winding avenue
A vast procession came in view;
The mourners' slow, advancing column
With reverent step drew near,
The "Dead March" playing, sad and solemn,
Above a soldier's bier.

There were the colonels, brigadiers,
Comrades in arms of other years,
Civilians, true and loyal-hearted
To him their bravest man,
Who seemed to say to those departed,
"Make room for Sheridan!"

Anon, beside the new-made mound,
The warworn veterans gathered round,
And spake of Lyon and of Lander,
And others ranked as high,