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.