"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,
To an old-fashioned garden my babyhood knew.

A wealth of red roses hung over the wall,
And, laden with pink, downy peaches, a tall
And willowy tree did its long branches sway
O'erhead, as you passed, in an inviting way;
While from its green shelter the oriole's song
Rode on the soft breezes the summer day long.

The currant-bush flourished in rows near the wall,
The sugar corn waved its soft leaves over all;
And buttercups, daisies and peonies grew,
The fragrant June pinks and the wee bells of blue;
The marigolds, poppies, and pansies so sweet
Lifted their dewy faces towards heaven to meet
The first smile of morning; the fragrant sweet pea
Wound its delicate tendrils round pickets, and we
To drowsiness drank of the odor it spilled,
While sunflowers nodded to us as we filled
Our baskets with blossoms for table bouquets,
Or lolled in the bliss of the soft morning haze;
Or, with aprons outspread, in our childish delight,
The butterfly chased in his foraging flight
'Mong the flowers; or the hummer, that gay little thief,
That pilfered the sweets from each petal and leaf.

But long years ago the old garden was sold!
Its walls, rustic gates, are all crumbled to mold;

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