Truth, Crushed To Earth, Shall Rise Again.

Heed Not The Night; A Summer Lodge Amid The Wild Is Mine, 'tis Shadowed By The Tulip-tree, 'tis Mantled By The Vine.

Ere, In The Northern Gale, The Summer Tresses Of The Trees Are Gone, The Woods Of Autumn, All Around Our Vale, Have Put Their Glory On.

But 'neath Yon Crimson Tree Lover To Listening Maid Might Breathe His Flame, Nor Mark, Within Its Roseate Canopy, Her Blush Of Maiden Shame.

Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest Smile.

Your Peaks Are Beautiful, Ye Apennines! In The Soft Light Of These Serenest Skies; From The Broad Highland Region, Black With Pines, Fair As The Hills Of Paradise They Rise, Bathed In The Tint Peruvian Slaves Behold In Rosy Flushes On The Virgin Gold.