A LOAN TO THE MESSENGER.

No. II.

Here is a scrap from another of my poetical friends, which has never seen the light, and which I will lend to the readers of the Messenger for the month. I give it as it came to me, apology and all, and doubt not it will be well received by those to whom I now dedicate it.

J. F. O.

My Dear O,—Instead of writing something new for your collection, I copy a few lines from a bagatelle, written a few days ago to a woman who is worthy of better verses: and, as they will never be published, of course, they may answer your purpose.

Very truly yours,
WILLIS.

Boston, August, 1831.

TO ———.

Lady! the fate that made me poor,
Forgot to take away my heart,—
And 'tis not easy to immure
The burning soul, and live apart:
To meet the wildering touch of beauty,
And hear her voice,—and think of duty:
To check a thought of burning passion,
When trembling on the lip like flame,—
And talk indifferently of fashion,—
A language choked till it is tame!
Oh God! I know not why I'm gifted
With feeling, if I may not love!
I know not why my cup is lifted
So far my thirsting lips above!
My look on thine unchidden lingers,
My hand retains thy dewy fingers,
Thy smile, thy glance, thy glorious tone
For hours and hours are mine alone:
Yet must my fervor back, and wait
Till solitude can set it free,—
Yet must I not forget that fate
Has locked my heart, and lost the key;
These very rhymes I'm weaving now
Condemn me for a broken vow!

N. P. W.

N. B. My friend soon recovered from this sad stroke, and he has since recovered the "key," and locked within the fate-closed casket a pearl, I learn, of great price. So much for a sophomore's Anacreontics!

If this "loan" prove acceptable, I have a choice one in store for May.