Gold, leaves hill and tree-top—brown, deepens o’er all;
The bat wheels around—sends the nighthawk his cry,
And the cross-bill commences her sweet lullaby;
In the grass chirps the cricket—the tree-toad crows shrill,
And the bark of the watch-dog sounds faint from the hill.
We smile at the hoarse heav’d-up roar of the frog,
And his half smother’d gulp as he dives from his log,
And then hasten homeward, fatigu’d, but still gay,
With the moon’s lustrous silver to brighten our way.