The following beautiful reply to the stanzas of Mr. Wilde, published in the first number of the Messenger, is attributed to Mrs. Buckley, the wife of a distinguished physician of Baltimore, a lady whose fine taste and poetic capacity are most happily displayed in these touching lines. The answer is a very perfect counterpart of Mr. Wilde's stanzas, and if we were called on to decide upon their relative merits, we do not know which of the two would most demand our admiration.

ANSWER

To "My Life is Like the Summer Rose."

The dews of night may fall from Heaven,
Upon the wither'd rose's bed,
And tears of fond regret be given,
To mourn the virtues of the dead:
Yet morning's sun the dews will dry,
And tears will fade from sorrow's eye,
Affection's pangs be lull'd to sleep,
And even love forget to weep.
The tree may mourn its fallen leaf,
And autumn winds bewail its bloom,
And friends may heave the sigh of grief,
O'er those who sleep within the tomb:
Yet soon will spring renew the flowers,
And time will bring more smiling hours;
In friendship's heart all grief will die,
And even love forget to sigh.
The sea may on the desert shore
Lament each trace it bears away;
The lonely heart its grief may pour
O'er cherish'd friendship's fast decay:
Yet when all trace is lost and gone,
The waves dance bright and gaily on;
Thus soon affection's bonds are torn,
And even love forgets to mourn.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO —— ——

We parted—not as lovers part—
No tear was in thine eye;
No mantling blush was on thy cheek,
Thy bosom heaved no sigh;
Yet there was something in thine air
That seemed to all unmoved,—
Something that told my bursting heart,
Dearest, that I was loved.
For, when I took thy gentle hand
To bid a short adieu,
Methought within my trembling clasp,
That white hand trembled too;
And when too, from my faltering tongue
The parting accents fell,
Thou didst not, dearest—can it be
Thou couldst not say farewell!
Forgive, if I have boldly erred—
If fancy 'twere alone,
That check'd thy voice, and lent thy hand
The tremors of my own.
Forgive, forgive the daring thought—
Forgive the hopes—the love—
That bids me seek thee soon again,
My bliss or wo to prove.