BY GEO. P. MORRIS.
| William was holding in his hand The likeness of his wife— Fresh, as if touched by fairy wand, With beauty, grace, and life. He almost thought it spoke: He gazed upon the treasure still, Absorbed, delighted, and amazed, To view the artist's skill. "This picture is yourself, dear Jane, 'Tis drawn to nature true: I've kissed it o'er and o'er again, It is so much like you." "And has it kissed you back, my dear?" "Why—no—my love," said he. "Then, William, it is very clear, It is not all like me!" |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
EPIGRAM.
THE MISTAKE CORRECTED.
| Anne, my foolish fancy's o'er, And I cannot love you more— Nay, sweet girl, why knit your brow? Cannot love you more—than now. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.