WRITTEN FOR MISS M—— T——'S ALBUM.

Mary, thou wert a lovely child!
A sweeter cherub never smiled!
Tho' since we have not often met,
Those days I well remember yet;
When, in thy sportiveness and glee,
Thou wert a favorite with me;
And told me, in thy frolic mood,
The story of Red-riding-hood—
In words I ne'er could understand—
They seemed sweet sounds from fairy land.
Time's changes numberless had passed
O'er thee when I beheld thee last,
Yet still I thought that I could trace
The same expression in thy face;
Only that then it was refined
By the bright impress of the mind—
For years had failed to steal away
The artlessness of childhood's day.
In nature's richest tints arrayed,
Thy cheek the bloom of health displayed;
And in its varying flush, I read
All that thy lips had left unsaid.
Mary, I thought thee lovely then—
Oh! may'st thou long thy charms retain,
And ne'er thine eyes their witness bear
To any but compassion's tear!
May life's fast flowing stream, for thee
Roll smoothly bright, and buoyantly—
Bearing thee calmly on thy way,
To realms of ever-shining day;
To regions of eternal peace,
Where joys live on and sorrows cease.

E. A. S.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES

Written on the Pillar erecting by Mrs. Barlow,
to the memory of her husband, Minister of the United States at Paris.

Where o'er the Polish desarts trackless way,
Relentless Winter rules with savage sway,
Where the shrill polar storms, as wild they blow,
Seem to repeat some plaint of mortal woe;
Far o'er the cheerless space, the traveller's eye
Shall this recording pillar long descry,
And give the sod a tear where Barlow lies,
He who was simply great and nobly wise;
Here led by Patriot zeal, he met his doom,
And found amid the frozen wastes a tomb—
Far from his native soil the Poet fell,
Far from that Western World he sung so well.
Nor she, so long beloved, nor she was nigh,
To catch the dying look—the parting sigh!
She, who, the hopeless anguish to beguile,
In fond memorial rears the funeral pile;
Whose widowed bosom, on Columbia's shore,
Shall mourn the moments that return no more—
While bending o'er the broad Atlantic wave,
Sad fancy hovers on the distant grave.

H. M. WILLIAMS.