For the Southern Literary Messenger.
EPITAPH.
ON A YOUNG LADY.
| Where this bending willow weeps, All alone, Myrtilla sleeps: Softly scatter nard and myrrh, Lest ye should awaken her. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
EPIGRAM.
ON A WALTZING GIRL.
| There's a charming young girl that I know, And I've thought that, if I were a beau, I should like to engage her in chat, To feast on her smiles, and all that, And drink her sweet words as they flowed From her musical mouth, like an ode; But there's one thing that shocks me, I own, And drives me to let her alone: She has one of the worst of all faults— She is fond of this new-fangled waltz. |