For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND ME.
| Memory! within thy deepest cell A recollection glows; A burning thought—whose magic spell Can charm away my woes: It gushes o'er my troubled soul In lava streams of joy, Its talismanic power can roll The darkness from my sky; It thrills my heart with ecstacy, That ever present thought! And, oh! it were too sweet to die With mind so richly fraught: And who is she for whom my heart, My feelings, harmonize? And who is she that has the art To chain my sympathies? Thine is the brightness of the eye, Which tide nor time can dim; Thy voice is softer than the sigh Of love, or angel's hymn; The rose is thine—but not the hue That fadeth with the morn— Thy color's deeper when the dew Away from flower is gone— When all beside is bleak and drear Thy genial blushes rise, Like flow'rets of the northern year, That bloom amid the ice; But more than all, thy beauty brings In her imperial train; And more than all, thy magic flings To dim the dizzened brain. Yes! more than these—than rosy cheek— Is thy pure lofty mind; Thy nature calm, and soft and meek, With warmth of heart conjoined. These are the charms that deck thee most, With radiance deep and pure,— These are the flow'rs that thou may'st boast, When beauty's hour is o'er: Thy world may fade—its glory past,— But in the sky afar, Thy mind will shine undimmed at last, A high and holy star! Go to the East—it is thy home— In nature like to thee; And while o'er beds of flowers you roam, No breeze, no bird so free— And while you breathe the Attar-Gul Of fragrant memory, Your heart with thrilling joy so full, It throbs like summer sea; Oh! then should thought of times gone by, With dew-drop dim thine ee, May, mid the breeze that dances nigh, A sigh be heard for me. |
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For the Southern Literary Messenger.