STANZAS.
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Ny life Is like the summer rose

 That opens to the morning sky, But ere the shades of evening close,

 Is seatter'd on the groand-to die. Yet on the roses humble bed ; The sweetest dews of night are shed, As if she wept the waste to sec :. But none sha1l weep tear for me! My life js like the autumn leaf

 Thsf trembles in the lnooa's pale ray, lts bold is frail--its date is brief,

 Hestiess- -and soon to pass awayl xet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn it's shade, The winds bewail the lesfess tree. Bat none shall breathe sigh for me. Ny life is like the prints, which feet

 Have isft on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat,

 Ailtfaee viii vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to ctace AA vestige of the human race, Ca that ione shore loud moans the sea, But none, alas. shall mourn for me