Autumn hath crowned thee glorious, radiant clime!
Autumn, the holiest season to the heart,
Making thy sunsets with all hues sublime,
The faultless picture of the Eternal art!
To love thee less, New-England! 'twere a crime,
More could we not, ourselves of thee a part;
Tears are thine offering; prayers unceasing be
Poured from the heart Imperial Land! for thee.
_New-York, July 1, 1843_
E. B. G.
'MENS CONSCIA RECTI.'