For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MISS C——, ON HER COQUETRY.

"Go to," and quit thy idle ways
Thou winning little creature;
A mind of nobler import plays,
Around thy every feature.
Why waste those powers, by heav'n design'd
To win true hearts and wear them?
To wreck the peace of half mankind,
Who let thy arts ensnare them?
In thy pursuit 'tis all the same,
The simple, wise, or learned,
Alike are fuel for thy flame—
Are on thy altar burned.
Nay, say not "no!"—within that hall,
Hallowed by deeds of ages,
I've seen thy look around thee call
Virginia's proudest sages.
I've seen thee, 'midst the festive scene,
With fools and fops in waiting,
Essay to conquer things too mean,
For pity, love, or hating.
Go, quit it all—'tis weak—'tis vain—
'Tis wicked—nay, 'tis cruel;
Thy native truth alone can gain
For thee, the brightest jewel.

B.

Richmond, Feb. 1835.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.