My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
And ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground to die;
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The softest dews of night are shed
As though she wept such waste to see,
But none shall drop one tear for me!
My life is like the autumn leaf
Which trembles in the moon's pale ray,
Its hold is frail, its date is brief,
Restless;--and soon to pass away:
Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The wind bemoan the leafless tree,
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the print, which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand,
Soon as the rising tide shall beat
Their trace will vanish from the sand;
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea,
But none shall thus lament for me.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.