TO * * * * *.
| Believe not that my heart is cold, And feels not friendship's sacred fire, If I sometimes myself withhold, And from thy festive scenes retire. Oh, no! I love the social bower Where friendship smiles with joyous mirth, And yet to me there is an hour More dear than all those scenes on earth. 'Tis when in pensive mood, the mind, Retires within itself to muse, And some bright dream, long since resigned, With sad though pleasing thought reviews; Some golden dream of early years, When all the heart was warm and true; And life, unshaded yet with cares, Displayed its best and brightest hue. 'Twas then I dreamed of faithful love, That would o'er time and change prevail— Food, fairy scenes of pleasure wove— Bright, verdant spots in life's dark vale. But time advanced, and at one sweep My air-built castles tore away; And, like a wreck upon the deep, My shattered hopes and prospects lay. Upon life's ocean still I'm tossed; And tho' the skies are sometimes bright, Yet on the waves again I'm lost, Midst howling storms and pitchy night. Believe not then my heart is cold, And feels not friendship's sacred fire, If I sometimes myself withhold, And from thy festive scenes retire. |
L.
Pittsylvania.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE GRAVE SEEKERS.
BY R. S. F.
| Come part the crowd, and open a way, For those who are seeking the grave; Some are pressing on in the light of day, Some by the moon's obscurer ray, Some on land and some on the wave. Now come with me to the festive hall, Where in mirth they dance and sing, Till echo is answered by echo's call, As the merry peals ring from one and all; To the grave they swiftly wing. Again with me, come haste away Where the theatre shines so bright, For there the lamps, with their peerless ray, Have darkness changed into brighter day. They gaze on the stage with delight! Come follow this crowd which moves as the wave On the gently ebbing sea; With the scenes of the night their bosoms heave, But little they think the next is the grave, Not of the stage—but eternity. See, reckless youth—maturer age Alike are far from heaven; In festive scenes their time engage— They idly sport—they madly rage— While to the grave they are driven. Ye may trace their path as ye move along The busy crowds of care; In the house of God—in the house of song— In distant isles—the waves among, To the grave they must all repair. So part the crowd, and open a way, For those who are seeking the grave; Some are pressing on in the light of day, Some by the moon's obscurer ray, Some on land and some on the wave. |