240 Soiitlnru Historical Society Papers.
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 prints which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
His track will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud mourns the sea, But none shall ere lament for me."
God forbid that such should ever be true of even one of the sol- diers of the Confederate armv!
