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With its bright colours, intermixed with spots
He hears the sound of the hunter's gun,
And rides on the echo back,
And flits in his woodland track.
The cloud, and the open sky-
Like the light of your very eye.
“My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
Is scattered on the ground to die!
My life is like the autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pale ray, Its hold is frail-its date is brief,
Restless-and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent-tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me!