

SONG.

TO S. C. T..
{"newspaper_name": "Arkansas intelligencer.", "edition": "01", "page": "p1", "byline": ""}
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TO S. C. T..
The rose bud that you gave me, love,
Beneath the Intel vine,
Although it fades in others eyes,
Uuladed seems in mine;
No common flower it seems to me,
On sunshine fed and dew
= BY others reared, by others viewed.
Then Plucked at last by YOU.
But It's linked in thought with you, love,
With you and only you,
As ic tim your bosom chaste


Among the lilies grow;
As if it in your bosom grew,


Oh, gentle maid and fair
Grew close upon your nursing heart,
And fed its beauty there.
And you pressed i. to your lips, love,
The night you gave it me
And thence, deem, its life, its sweets,
It's deathess bloom must be;
1t drew its vermeil from your lips
IT'S fragrant with your breath
1t lives upon that bnlmy kiss


That gives it life in death.
But If th6y see bes: VINO deem, love,
1t sere and yellow grows.
III tell you why the life and bloom
Have left the withered rose;
The flower upon my heart has lain,
And my heart has drawn away
The life, the sweets it drew from yours
What time on yours it lay.