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 could raise:
Thy fine silken petals they'll softly unfold,
Thy pure bosom filling with spices and gold!
I would not instruct thee in coveting wealth;
Yet beauty, we know, is the offspring of health;
And health, the fair daughter of freedom! is bright
From drinking the breezes, and feasting on light.
Then, come, little gem, from thy covert look out;
And see what the glad, golden sun is about!
His shafts, do they strike thee, new charms will impart,
Thy form making fairer, and richer, thy heart.
Occasion, sweet Bud, is for thee and for me:
This hour it may give what again ne'er shall be.
O, let not the sunshine of life pass away,
Nor touch both our eye and our heart with its ray!