For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Mr. White,—The following spirited lines, evidently composed on some occasion of serious import, together with a gold ring broken into several fragments, were accidentally found in my neighborhood about two years ago, enveloped in a neatly folded sheet of letter paper, without date, seal, or superscription. I send you a copy of them, hoping that by the aid of your very good "Messenger" they may meet the eye of poor "Corydon" again, or if you please, that of his "faithless one." Should you deem them worthy of publication, they are now at your service. Yours, respectfully,

AGRICOLA.

Albemarle, March 25, 1835.

THE LAST GIFT.

When I sit musing on the chequered past,
(A term much darken'd with untimely woes,)
My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows
The tear, tho' half disown'd, and binding fast
Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart;
I say to her she robbed me of my rest,
When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast
Received from her this wearying, lingering smart,
Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart:
Tho' wrong'd, I love her—yet in anger love;
For she was most unworthy. Now I prove
Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams
The native pride of my much injured heart.—H. K. White.
I said to Love's accursed art,
Behold this broken ring!
Thus thou hast broke the bruised heart,
As 'twere some worthless thing.
But tho' it bleed at every pore,
Crush'd by the reckless blow,
My spirit still shall triumph o'er
The tide of wo.
I said to Friendship's lifted hand,
Smite on—my bosom's bare—
Deep didst thou plunge the fatal brand,
And left it rankling there.
But still there throbs within these veins,
The spirit's manliness,
That scorns, amid its keenest pains,
To seek redress.
I said to Treachery's cunning dame,
Come on—I dread thee not;
Thou may'st pursue me till my name
And being are forgot.
But still my spirit ne'er shall weep,
Tho' driv'n to Ocean's farthest Isle,
I'd rather brave the angry deep,
Than thy cold smile.
I said to Mammon's golden store,
Shine on—thou art but dust;
I covet not thy worthless ore,
Tho' by Misfortune crush'd.
For deep within this bosom's shrine,
There lives a spirit still,
(More costly far than wealth of thine,)
Thou canst not kill.
I said to Earth's unstable ball,
Roll on—it matters not;
A few more suns will rise and fall,
And I shall be forgot.
But still the spirit in its bloom,
Tho' oft by sorrow curs'd,
Shall yet from thy sepulch'ral gloom
With rapture burst.
I said to Her, the faithless one,
Who vow'd to love me best,
Smile on—thy friendship I disown,
And spurn thee from my breast.
But still the spirit thou hast crush'd,
The secret ne'er shall tell,
And tho' thou tread it in the dust,
'Twill say—FAREWELL.
I said to Him, the mighty Lord,
Who reigns above the sky,
And governs by his sovereign word,
Man's darkest destiny,—
Father, I kiss thy chastening rod,
In love I know 'twas given,
For while it smites me 'neath the sod,
It points to Heaven.

CORYDON.