Augusta, Ga.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
CANTILENA AMATORIA.
BY GILES McQUIGGIN.
| Not love thee, Lelia! ask the rocks That gird the mountain stream; Whereon I've knelt and notch'd thy name, By Cynthia's borrowed beam. Not love thee! ask the moss that spreads From Wye-head to the tide, How oft I've roved at midnight's noon, And thought of thee and sigh'd. The ravine winding through the wood, The terrace walk, the grove, Are all the faithful witnesses Of my enduring love. Night's latest star can tell the times I've watch'd it as it rose, When none but it, lone wanderer, Was watcher of my woes. Pale Cynthia! how I've gaz'd on thee, And thought of her whose frown To sorrow's deepest ecstasy Had borne my spirit down. Her doubt is worse than death to one Whose all of earthly bliss Is in the smile that gives her love In sweet return for his. Not love thee, Lelia! witness Heaven, How oft before thy throne, I've bent in humble attitude, To worship thee alone; And her dear image intervened Between my thoughts and thee: Forgive the sin, her sacred form Seemed dear as thou to me. Not love thee! when the life-blood chills That warms my system now— And to the monster's mandate all My body's powers must bow,— Then Lelia thou shalt just begin A holier love to share; And if there are blest homes on high, We'll meet and feel it there. |