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| “’T IS 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;—’t was given us by the God | |
| That gave ye yours.—Love ye your native sod? | 5 |
| 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 the land to save. | 10 |
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| 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 you by the hand— | |
| But soon we found ye came to rob the land: | 15 |
| We quarrell’d—and your countrymen we slew, | |
| Till one alone of all, remain’d 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. | 20 |
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| He loved us too, and taught us many things, | |
| And much we strove the stranger’s heart to glad; | |
| But to its kindred still the spirit clings, | |
| And therefore was his soul for ever sad; | |
| Nor other wish or joy the lone one had, | 25 |
| Save on the solitary shore to roam, | |
| Or sit and gaze for hours upon the deep, | |
| That roll’d between him and his native home; | |
| And when he thought none mark’d him, he would weep, | |
| Or sing this song of wo which still our maidens keep. | 30 |
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| “My life is like the summer rose | |
| That opens to the morning sky, | |
| And ere the shades of evening close, | |
| Is scatter’d on the ground—to die! | |
| Yet on that rose’s humble bed | 35 |
| The softest dews of night are shed, | |
| As though she wept such waste to see,— | |
| But none shall drop a tear for me! | |
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| My life is like the autumn leaf | |
| That trembles in the moon’s pale ray, | 40 |
| Its hold is frail—its date is brief, | |
| Restless—and soon to pass away! | |
| Yet, when that leaf shall fall and fade, | |
| The parent tree will mourn its shade, | |
| The wind bewail the leafless tree, | 45 |
| But none shall breathe one sigh for me! | |
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| My life is like the track of feet | |
| Left upon Tampa’s desert strand; | |
| Soon as the rising tide shall beat, | |
| Their marks shall vanish from the sand; | 50 |
| 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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