Thy loved name will dwell on my last ebbing breath.
Heaven’s bliss would be clouded and dark without thee,
The step, voice, and eye, that a heaven are to me.
By the way, Lavigne, to his natural gallantry adds somewhat of poetical ability; and it is shrewdly suspected that he is the author of the above song. However that is, whilst he was in the midst of his pathetic strain, with his hand on his heart, and his eye fixed expressively upon Mary, a small manuscript fell from his pocket, which I took possession of, for the purpose of restoring to him after he had finished his song; but the superscription catching my eye, by the clear light of the now risen moon, I concluded to keep it awhile for the purpose of teazing him. I subsequently took a copy; and after hinting most provokingly concerning it at several of our gatherings, in his presence and that of Mary, restored it to him. Here it is —
TO MARY,
ON HER PRESENTING ME WITH A VIOLET.
This gem of vernal breezes bland,
How bright its azure beauty shone,
When first thy soft and fairy hand,
Placed the slight stem within my own.