The autumn winds are sighing loud,
And wither'd leaves come flitting by,
And slowly sails the gath'ring cloud,
Across the bleak November sky.

The flow'rs have perish'd on the stem,
Their brilliant beauty all decayed,
And many golden hope like them,
In disappointment's tomb is laid.

But yet, far sinking to his rest,
The golden king of day behold,
The crimson curtains of the west
Are richly fring'd with molten gold.

Thus brightly may your life decline,
Though youth may fade upon your brow,
May Truth and Virtue radiant shine,
E'en like yon sinking sun beam now.