"A sweet good-night," they say.
Oh, cricket, hush your merry song;
How can you be so gay?
Ye roses bow your crimson heads,
And mourn my vanished day.
AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN.
How oft from the din of the hard city street,
The show and the splendor, in fancy, my feet
Stray backward through paths that are dripping with dew,