For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO F——.
| And could'st thou F—— then believe That I had thought thy guileless heart Would prompt thee meanly to deceive, And stoop to play a treacherous part? No, lady no!—I saw thee move, Artless in unsuspecting youth; That heart I saw had learn'd to love The hallowed sanctity of truth. Could F——'s throbbing bosom beat Victims on victims to ensnare: Point to the lovers at her feet, And proudly count the captives there? No, lady no! to honor true, Thou would'st not—could'st not thus appear— Triumphs like these would seem to you, Too dearly purchased to be dear. These, these are arts alone allied To spirits yet akin to earth; The generous soul with nobler pride Spurns the poor trick, and trusts to worth. Yes, lady yes! such worth as thine, Which kindred worth and genius rules, To baser spirits may resign The mad idolatry of fools. |
H.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.