Fragment
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'Tis many moons ago — a long long time
Since first upon this shore a white man trod —
From the great water to the mountain clime
This was our home — 'twas given us by the God
That gave ye yours — Love ye your native sod?
So did our fathers too, for they were men,
They fought to guard it for their hearts were brave,
And long they fought — We were a people then!
This was our country — it is now our grave —
Would I had never lived or died this land to save!
When first ye came your numbers were but few
Our nation many as the leaves or sand:
Hungry and tired ye were — we pitied you —
We called you brothers — took ye by the hand —
But soon we found ye came to rob the land:
We quarrelled — and your countrymen we slew,
'Till one alone of all remained behind
Among the false he only had been true
And much we loved this man of single mind
And ever while he lived, to him were kind.
He loved us too, and taught us many things,
And much we strove the stranger's heart to glad:
But to it's [ sic ] kindred still the spirit clings
And therefore was his soul forever sad;
No other wish or joy the lone one had
Save on the solitary shore to roam,
Or sit and gaze for hours upon the deep,
That rolled between him and his native home,
And when he thought none marked him he would weep
Or sing his song of woe which still our maidens keep.
My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
And ere the shades of evening close
Is scattered on the ground to die:
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The softest dews of night are shed
As if she wept such waste to see
But none shall drop a tear for me.
My life is like the Autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
It's hold is frail — it's date is brief —
Restless — and soon to pass away —
Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade
The parent tree will mourn it's shade,
The wind bewail the leafless tree
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the print that feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand
Soon as the rising tide shall beat
Their track will vanish from the sand
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race
On that lone shore loud moans the sea
But none shall thus lament for me.
'Tis many moons ago — a long long time
Since first upon this shore a white man trod —
From the great water to the mountain clime
This was our home — 'twas given us by the God
That gave ye yours — Love ye your native sod?
So did our fathers too, for they were men,
They fought to guard it for their hearts were brave,
And long they fought — We were a people then!
This was our country — it is now our grave —
Would I had never lived or died this land to save!
When first ye came your numbers were but few
Our nation many as the leaves or sand:
Hungry and tired ye were — we pitied you —
We called you brothers — took ye by the hand —
But soon we found ye came to rob the land:
We quarrelled — and your countrymen we slew,
'Till one alone of all remained behind
Among the false he only had been true
And much we loved this man of single mind
And ever while he lived, to him were kind.
He loved us too, and taught us many things,
And much we strove the stranger's heart to glad:
But to it's [ sic ] kindred still the spirit clings
And therefore was his soul forever sad;
No other wish or joy the lone one had
Save on the solitary shore to roam,
Or sit and gaze for hours upon the deep,
That rolled between him and his native home,
And when he thought none marked him he would weep
Or sing his song of woe which still our maidens keep.
My life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
And ere the shades of evening close
Is scattered on the ground to die:
Yet on that rose's humble bed
The softest dews of night are shed
As if she wept such waste to see
But none shall drop a tear for me.
My life is like the Autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
It's hold is frail — it's date is brief —
Restless — and soon to pass away —
Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade
The parent tree will mourn it's shade,
The wind bewail the leafless tree
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!
My life is like the print that feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand
Soon as the rising tide shall beat
Their track will vanish from the sand
Yet, as if grieving to efface
All vestige of the human race
On that lone shore loud moans the sea
But none shall thus lament for me.
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