TO A. L. B.
Author of "Trust Not," in the Messenger for February.
| Scorn not the love of the gentle one! Turn not away from the heart's devotion! Still to its shrine may'st thou be won, And thy bosom be stirr'd with its gentle emotion. Spurn not that treasure! its worth is untold; Bright gems are hid in its deep recesses;— Fear not that her bosom shall grow cold, When the light is gone from her wavy tresses. There's a fountain of feeling pure and bright, Which the glance of her eye is so gently revealing; Like the twilight dawn of the Summer's light, On the longing sight of the weary stealing. Trust to the love thou hast falsely disdain'd, So shall the trusted deceive thee never; Forget the scorn thou hast falsely claim'd, And the star of thy breast shall be bright forever. Then come to "the hall of wine and song," Where the spirit of beauty reposes, And truth shall be crown'd by the shining throng, With a garland of myrtle and roses! |
S. W. W.
Raleigh, N. C.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SPRING.
| To see thy tiny songsters rear With wondrous skill, their home of love; And hear each praise the other's care In songs, that might be breathed above. To watch the modest flowret's growth, The spotless type of love on earth Which nightly droops, as though 'twere loath To quit the breast that gave it birth; Or lay me down beside some brook, Where I may muse the livelong day, And drop my oft neglected book, To dream of others far away. Such is the joy, the quiet bliss, Of holding converse sweet with thee, And wooing, still, thy favoring kiss Midst nature's wilds, in fancy free. But I must bide within my room, Content to breathe, alone, thy air, And feel that it is double gloom, Because thou art so lovely, there. |