THE AUTUMN ROSE-BUD.

Come out, pretty Rose-Bud, my lone, timid one!

Come forth from thy green leaves, and peep at the sun;

For little he does, in these dull autumn hours,

At height'ning of beauty, or laughing with flowers.

His beams, on thy tender young cheek as he plays,

Will give it a blush that no other can raise;

Thy fine silken petals they‘ ll softly unfold,

And fill their pure centre with spices and gold.

I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth;

But beauty, we know, is the offspring of health;

And health, the fair daughter of freedom, is bright

With feasting on breezes, and drinking the light.

Then come, pretty bud; from thy covert look out,

And see what the glad, golden sun is about:

His shafts, should they strike thee, will only impart

A grace to thy form, and a sweet to thy heart.