For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO ANN.
| I will not cross thy path again While Earth shall stand or Ocean roll, For thou hast rent the bond in twain That fetter'd long my struggling soul. For me the world no more can bring A smile to love, a frown to fear; The bird that soars on wildest wing, Hath stronger ties to chain him here. To-morrow's sun shall sink to me Beneath lone ocean's caverns deep— To-morrow's sun shall glide from thee, Behind yon forest's waving sweep. And thou shalt mark his farewell beams O'er lov'd familiar objects play; But will they rouse the fairy dreams That once endear'd the close of day? I shall not heed, in climes afar, Thy name—'twill be a sound unheard, And time and distance doubly mar The fitful dream that thou hast stirr'd. I shall not long remember thee, Mid' prouder schemes and objects strange; Thy scorn hath set the captive free, And boundless now shall be his range. And while a sunder'd path shall own My bosom now, as cold as thine, To me thy doom shall rest unknown, As thou shalt nothing know of mine. If o'er thee pale disease should creep And mark thee for an early grave,— No mourning voice shall cross the deep, No tear shall swell the eastern wave. If long and blest thy life should be, And fall like leaves when frost is come,— Unconscious all, the sullen sea Will bear no echo from thy tomb. Unknown must be thy smiles or tears: Yet sometimes, at the farewell hour, The book of fate unclasp'd appears, And half imparts a prophet's power. Try to forget! The time may be When Fancy shall withhold her sway, And blissful dreams no more for thee Shall sport in sunset's golden ray. Try to forget! Thy calm of pride May sink to waveless, waste despair, Like her whose homeward glance descried Heaven's shower of flame descending there. Try to forget! Thy peace of mind May change to passion's blasting storm; When spirits of the past unbind The shroud from Pleasure's faded form. Pray to forget! When chill disdain Shall haply tell that love is fled, And thou shalt gaze, but gaze in vain, On eyes where Passion's light is dead; Then turn thee not to former days— Remember not this hour of pride That banish'd one, who but to raise, To shield, to bless thee, would have died. The shaft that flies from Sorrow's bow When Fate would sternest wrath employ, Is far less steel'd with present woe Than poison'd with remember'd joy. |
Norfolk, September 13, 1834.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MY NATIVE LAND.
BY LUCY T. JOHNSON.
| I return'd to my own native land, And I sought for the spot I had loved, Where the rose and the lily had bloom'd 'neath my hand, And my footsteps in childhood had roved. I saw—but I wept at the change Long years had thrown over the scene;— It was there—but the desert's wild, desolate range Was mark'd "where the garden had been." I look'd for the cottage of white, As it stood half conceal'd, half disclosed, By the rose tree and vine which encircled it quite, Near the sod where my fathers reposed. It was gone—but the chimney was there, The sad relic of long vanish'd years; And the thorn and the brier now embraced, or were near, Where my kindred had buried their cares. I look'd for the valley and stream, Where the bower and grove intertwined; Where the wild hunter boy oft indulged in his dream Of delights he was never to find. The valley and stream—they were there, But the shade of the green wood had pass'd; The stream was a wild where the serpent might lair, In that vale's ever shadowless waste. I look'd for the mountain and hill, Where the hunter delighted to stray, And where at the twilight, the lone whippoorwill Had pour'd forth his anchorite lay. They were there—but the hunter was gone, And the sound of his bugle was hush'd; And the torrent was there—but the light-footed fawn Drank not at its fount as it rush'd. I look'd for the friends I lov'd best; The friends of my earliest choice; They had gone to that bourne where the dead are at rest, Or cold was each care-stricken voice. The living were there—but were chill'd By the imprint of age and its cares; They met me—just met me—and heartlessly smiled, For their friendship had fled with their years. Adieu to thee—"land of the leal," Fair land of the blue-vaulted sky; Tho' I go—yet the heart thus inspired to feel, Shall remember thee oft with a sigh. |