For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO * * * * *.
| Believe not that my heart is cold, And feels not friendship's sacred fire, If I sometimes myself withhold, And from thy festive scenes retire. Oh, no! I love the social bower Where friendship smiles with joyous mirth, And yet to me there is an hour More dear than all those scenes on earth. 'Tis when in pensive mood, the mind, Retires within itself to muse, And some bright dream, long since resigned, With sad though pleasing thought reviews; Some golden dream of early years, When all the heart was warm and true; And life, unshaded yet with cares, Displayed its best and brightest hue. 'Twas then I dreamed of faithful love, That would o'er time and change prevail— Food, fairy scenes of pleasure wove— Bright, verdant spots in life's dark vale. But time advanced, and at one sweep My air-built castles tore away; And, like a wreck upon the deep, My shattered hopes and prospects lay. Upon life's ocean still I'm tossed; And tho' the skies are sometimes bright, Yet on the waves again I'm lost, Midst howling storms and pitchy night. Believe not then my heart is cold, And feels not friendship's sacred fire, If I sometimes myself withhold, And from thy festive scenes retire. |
L.
Pittsylvania.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.