BOOK FIRST.

AMERICAN SONGS AND LYRICS

The Wild Honeysuckle.

  Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
    Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
  Untouched thy honey’d blossoms blow,
    Unseen thy little branches greet;
      No roving foot shall crush thee here,
      No busy hand provoke a tear.

  By Nature’s self in white arrayed,
    She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
  And planted here the guardian shade,
    And sent soft waters murmuring by;
      Thus quietly thy summer goes,—­
      Thy days declining to repose.

  Smit with those charms, that must decay,
    I grieve to see your future doom;
  They died—­nor were those flowers more gay—­
    The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
      Unpitying frosts and Autumn’s power
      Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

  From morning suns and evening dews
    At first thy little being came;
  If nothing once, you nothing lose,
    For when you die you are the same;
      The space between is but an hour,
      The frail duration of a flower.

P. FRENEAU.

Song.

  Who has robbed the ocean cave,
    To tinge thy lips with coral hue? 
  Who from India’s distant wave
    For thee those pearly treasures drew? 
      Who from yonder orient sky
      Stole the morning of thine eye?

  Thousand charms, thy form to deck,
    From sea, and earth, and air are torn;
  Roses bloom upon thy cheek,
    On thy breath their fragrance borne. 
      Guard thy bosom from the day,
      Lest thy snows should melt away.

  But one charm remains behind,
    Which mute earth can ne’er impart;
  Nor in ocean wilt thou find,
    Nor in the circling air, a heart. 
      Fairest! wouldst thou perfect be,
      Take, oh, take that heart from me.

J. SHAW.

“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 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;
  Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
    All 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, alas! shall mourn for me!