For the Southern Literary Messenger.
FROM MY SCRAP BOOK.
| You ask me B——ty, why I mourn, Yet dry'st the tearful eye? You ask me why I look with scorn, And check the heaving sigh? Time was, when I could carol forth, To tune of lively glee; But dark despair has left no hope— Nor sigh—nor tear—for me. Like me—perchance some wayward sprite, Might dazzling lead astray; Then leave you on the giddy height, To perish far away: Take heed while yet you have the choice, Avoid the Syren's way; Nor listen to the artful voice, Which calls—but to betray; For sigh from him that is deceived, Or tear from eye that once believed, Is sought in vain—tho' fill'd with grief, Nor sigh nor tear can bring relief; 'Tis time alone can steel the heart, And foil the Syren's pointed dart. |
POWHATAN.
Petersburg, Dec. 19, 1834.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.