Weakened with fear, lone, haunted by remorse,
Poor, shattered wretch, there waits he that pale horse.
* * * * *
=_Richard Henry Wilde, 1789-._= (Manual, pp. 521, 501.)
=_330._= MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.
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 that rose's humble bed
The softest dews, of night are shed,
As if she wept such waste to see;
But none shall drop a tear for me.
My life is like the autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail, its state is brief,
Restless, and soon to pass away;
But when 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 print which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand;
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
Their track 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.
* * * * *
=_James A. Hillhouse, 1789-1844.
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