M. S. L.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO IANTHE.
| Think of me when the morning wakes, With a smile that's bright and a blush that's new; And the wave-rocked goddess gently shakes From her rosy wings, the gems of dew. Think of me, when the day-god burns In his noon-tide blaze and his purest light; And think of me when his chariot turns To the sombre shades of silent night. Think of me, when the evening's store Of brilliance, fades on the wondering eye; And think of me, when the flowers pour Their incense to the star-lit sky. Think of me when the evening star, Through the deep blue sky shall dart his beams; And think of me when the mind, afar, Shall chase the forms of its joyous dreams. Think of me in the hour of mirth— Think of me in the hour of prayer— Aye! think amidst each scene of earth, You feel my spirit is mingling there. For morning's beam—nor evening's light— Nor days of woe—nor hours of glee— Nor e'en religion's holiest rite, Can steal or force my thoughts from thee. |
FERGUS.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SONNET.
FROM THE PORTUGUES OF CAMOENS.
BY R. H. WILDE, Of Georgia.
Sonnet xliii. of the edition of 1779-1780.
"O cysne quando sente ser chegada," &c.