For the Southern Literary Messenger.
YOUNG ROSALIE LEE.
| I love to forget Ambition And Hope, in the mingled thought Of valley and wood and meadow, Where whilome my spirit caught Affection's holiest breathings; Where, under the skies, with me Young Rosalie roved—aye drinking From Joy's bright Castaly. I think of the valley and river, The old wood bright with blossoms; Of the pure and chastened gladness Upspringing in our bosoms; I think of the lonely turtle So tongued with melancholy; And the hue of the drooping moonlight, And the starlight pure and holy! Of the beat of a heart most tender; The sigh of a shell-tinct lip, As soft as the land tones, wandering Far leagues, over ocean deep; Of a step, as light in its falling, On the breast of the beaded lea, As the fall of the fairy moonlight, On the leaf of yon tulip tree. I think of these and the murmur Of bird and katadyd, Whose home is the grave yard cypress, Whose goblet the honey-reed; And then I weep! for Rosalie Has gone to her early rest; And the green-lipped reed and the daisy, Suck sweets from her maiden breast. |
L. L.
Winchester, Va.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.