PHILIP FRENEAU THE WILD HONEYSUCKLE Fair flower, that dost so comely grow, By Nature's self in white arrayed, She bade thee shun the vulgar eye, Smit with those charms, that must decay, nor were those flowers more gay, From morning suns and evening dews For when you die, you are the same; THE INDIAN BURYING GROUND In spite of all the learned have said, Not so the ancients of these lands; And shares again the joyous feast. His imaged birds, and painted bowl, And venison, for a journey dressed, Activity, that wants no rest. His bow for action ready bent, And arrows with a head of stone, And not the old ideas are gone. Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, Here still a lofty rock remains, On which a curious eye may trace (Now wasted half by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race. 5 10 Here still an aged elm aspires, Beneath whose far-projecting shade There oft a restless Indian queen (Pale Shebah with her braided hair) And many a barbarous form is seen To chide the man that lingers here. By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, a shade! And long shall timorous Fancy see RICHARD HENRY WILDE MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE My life is like the Summer Rose, Is scattered on the ground- to die! The sweetest dews of night are shed, 10 15 My life is like the autumn leaf Restless and soon to pass away! But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints, which feet All trace will vanish from the sand; All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea JOHN HOWARD PAYNE HOME, SWEET HOME! 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 20 Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home; A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere. Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! 25 There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home! An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain; |