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THE THIRD OF NOVEMBER, 1861.

Softly breathes the westwind beside the ruddy forest,
 Taking leaf by leaf from the branches where he flies.
Sweetly streams the sunshine, this third day of November,
 Through the golden haze of the quiet autumn skies.

Tenderly the season has spared the grassy meadows,
 Spared the potted flowers that the old world gave the new,

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