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BY R. H. WILDE.
“My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground - to die! Yet on the rose's humble bed The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to see — But none shall weep a tear for me!
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!
My life is like the prints, which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
All trace will vanish from the sand,
THE DYING RAVEN
BY R. H. DAN A.
Come to these lonely woods to die alone ? It seems not many days since thou wast heard, From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note, Calling upon thy mates — and their clear answers. The earth was brown, then; and the infant leaves Had not put forth to warm them in the sun, Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice, Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone, And prophesying life to the sealed ground, Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties. And now they're all around us ;-offspring bright Of earth-a mother, who, with constant care, Doth feed and clothe them all.–Now o'er her fields, In blessed bands, or single, they are gone, Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream; Or peering o'er it-vanity well feignedIn quaint approval seem to glow and nod At their reflected graces. Morn to meet, They in fantastic labours pass the night, Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops