THE PRAYER.
| Oh! mother, whither do they lead This wretched form, this drooping frame? What means the white rose in my hair? These jewels sure are not a dream. Of wither'd leaves 'twere better far The bridal chaplet had been wove— Oh! mother, lead me back again; I cannot love—I cannot love! Look not for love—it is in vain! Within this heart no more it dwells: Unclasp the volume if thou wilt, And ponder on the truth it tells. Ah! dearest mother, do not seek To warm to life a thing that dies, Nor re-illume the flame, when once The shrine, in hopeless ruin lies. Not to the altar, mother—no, I cannot kneel and speak that vow— Oh! let me rend these hated gems, And tear the white rose from my brow. Nay, let the dark grave be my couch, Of cypress leaves my bridal wreath, And I will wed,—yes, gladly wed, And clasp my welcome bridegroom, Death! |
OCTAVIAN.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SELECTIONS FROM MY PORT FOLIO.
MY OWN OPINION—A la Shakspeare.
| There are, who say she is not beautiful. "Her forehead's not well turned," cries one. "The nose Too large"—"Her mouth ill-chiselled," says a third. With these, I claim no fellowship. For me, ('tis an odd taste, I know, and now-a-days, When people feel by rule, such taste is thought Exceedingly romantic—yet 'tis true,) I look not with this mathematic eye On woman's face; I carry not about The compass, and the square—and when I'm asked, "Is that face fine?" draw forth my instruments, And coolly calculate the length of chin, Th' expanse of forehead, and the distance take Twixt eye and nose, and then, twixt nose and mouth, And if, exactly correspondent, it Should not prove just so much, two and three-eighths, Or, one four-fifths, disgusted, turn away, And vow "'tis vile! there is no beauty in't!" Out, on this mechanic disposition! Look you! That man was born a carpenter. He hath no heart—he hath no soul in him, Who thus insults the "human face divine," And tests its beauty with a vile inch-rule, As he would test the beauty of a box, A chess-board, or a writing-desk! Oh no! It is not in the feature's symmetry (For choose of earth the most symmetric face, Phidias shall carve as perfect—out of stone,) That the deep beauty lies! Give me the face That's warm—that lives—that breathes—made radiant By an informing spirit from within! Give me the face that varies with the thought, That answers to the heart! and seems, the while, With such a separate consciousness endued, That, as we gaze, we can almost believe It is itself a heart—and, of itself, Doth feel and palpitate! And such is her's! One need but look on, to converse with her! Why I, without a thought of weariness, Have sat, and gazed on her for hours! and oft, As I have listened to her voice, and marked The beautiful flash of her fine dark eye, And the eloquent beaming of her face, And the tremulous glow that, when she spoke, Pervaded her whole being,—I have dreamed A spirit held communion with me then, And could have knelt to worship! |
P. H.
Augusta, Georgia.