To the Editor of the Southern Literary Messenger.
SIR—If you think the following verses worthy of an insertion in the Messenger, you will gratify me by giving them a place. They were written two or three years ago, by a young lady of this state; and it certainly never was her intention to publish them, but I am induced to offer them to the public eye, because I think they are creditable, and that they will not appear disadvantageously in the Messenger.
R.
TO D——.
| I'll think of thee—I'll think of thee In every moment of grief or of glee; The memory will come of these fleeting hours, Like the scent that is wafted from distant flow'rs; Like the faint, sweet echo that lingers on When the tones that waken'd it are gone. There's many a thought I may not tell, Hidden beneath the heart's deep swell; There's many a sweet and tender sigh Breath'd out when only God is nigh; And each familiar thing I see, Is blended with the thought of thee. Thy form will be miss'd from the social hearth, Thy voice from the mingling tones of mirth; When the sound of music is poured along— When my soul hangs entranced on the poet's song— When history points from her glowing page, To the deathless deeds of a former age— When my eye fills up and my heart beats high, I shall look in vain for thine answering eye. When the winds are lulled in the quiet sky, And the sparkling waters go surging by, And the cheering sun invites to walk, I shall miss thine arm and thy pleasant talk: My rustling step—the leafless tree— The very rock will speak of thee. I'll think of thee when the sunset dyes Are glowing bright in the western skies; When the dusky shades of evening's light Are melting away into deeper night— When the silvery moon looks bright above, Raising the tides of human love— When the holy stars look bright and far, I'll think of thee—my guiding star! When all save the beating heart is still, And the chainless fancy soars at will, When it lifts the dark veil from future years, And flutters and trembles with hopes and fears,— When it turns to retrace the burning past, And the blinding tears come thick and fast— And oh! when bending the humble knee At the throne of God—I will pray for thee! And wilt thou sometimes think of me, When thy thoughts from this stormy world are free? When thou turnest o'erwearied from toil and strife The warring passions of busy life, May a still, small whispering, speak to thee, Like a touch on thy heartstring—Love, think of me. |
E.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.