Albemarle, March 25, 1835.

THE LAST GIFT.

When I sit musing on the chequered past,
(A term much darken'd with untimely woes,)
My thoughts revert to her, for whom still flows
The tear, tho' half disown'd, and binding fast
Pride's stubborn cheat to my too yielding heart;
I say to her she robbed me of my rest,
When that was all my wealth. 'Tis true my breast
Received from her this wearying, lingering smart,
Yet, ah! I cannot bid her form depart:
Tho' wrong'd, I love her—yet in anger love;
For she was most unworthy. Now I prove
Vindictive joy; and on my stern front gleams
The native pride of my much injured heart.—H. K. White.
I said to Love's accursed art,
Behold this broken ring!
Thus thou hast broke the bruised heart,
As 'twere some worthless thing.
But tho' it bleed at every pore,
Crush'd by the reckless blow,
My spirit still shall triumph o'er
The tide of wo.
I said to Friendship's lifted hand,
Smite on—my bosom's bare—
Deep didst thou plunge the fatal brand,
And left it rankling there.
But still there throbs within these veins,
The spirit's manliness,
That scorns, amid its keenest pains,
To seek redress.
I said to Treachery's cunning dame,
Come on—I dread thee not;
Thou may'st pursue me till my name
And being are forgot.
But still my spirit ne'er shall weep,
Tho' driv'n to Ocean's farthest Isle,
I'd rather brave the angry deep,
Than thy cold smile.
I said to Mammon's golden store,
Shine on—thou art but dust;
I covet not thy worthless ore,
Tho' by Misfortune crush'd.
For deep within this bosom's shrine,
There lives a spirit still,
(More costly far than wealth of thine,)
Thou canst not kill.
I said to Earth's unstable ball,
Roll on—it matters not;
A few more suns will rise and fall,
And I shall be forgot.
But still the spirit in its bloom,
Tho' oft by sorrow curs'd,
Shall yet from thy sepulch'ral gloom
With rapture burst.
I said to Her, the faithless one,
Who vow'd to love me best,
Smile on—thy friendship I disown,
And spurn thee from my breast.
But still the spirit thou hast crush'd,
The secret ne'er shall tell,
And tho' thou tread it in the dust,
'Twill say—FAREWELL.
I said to Him, the mighty Lord,
Who reigns above the sky,
And governs by his sovereign word,
Man's darkest destiny,—
Father, I kiss thy chastening rod,
In love I know 'twas given,
For while it smites me 'neath the sod,
It points to Heaven.

CORYDON.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

APOSTROPHE

Of the Æolian Harp to the Wind.

"Wind of the dark blue mountains,
Thou dost but sweep my strings,
Into wild gusts of mournfulness,
With the rushing of thy wings.
When the gale is freshly blowing
My notes responsive swell,
And over music's power,
Their triumphs seem to tell.
But when the breeze is sighing,
Then comes 'a dying fall,'
Less—less indeed exalting,
But sweeter far than all.
It sighs, like hapless mortals,
For youthful pleasures fled,
For hopes and friends once cherished,
Now mingled with the dead.
And oh! how sweetly touching,
Is the sad and plaintive strain,
Recalling former pleasures,
That ne'er can live again.
Once more thy breezes freshen,
And sweep the Æolian strings,
And again their notes are swelling,
With the rushing of thy wings.
They seem to cheer the drooping,
To bid the wretched live,
And with their sounds ecstatic,
His withering hopes revive."
Alas! and in life's drama,
Howe'er we play our part,
Hope is forever breathing,
On the Lyre of the Heart.
Hope is forever touching
Some chord that vibrates there,
While bitter disappointment
Mars the delusive air.
Alternate joys and sorrows,
Obedient to her call,
Now breathe a strain that's flatt'ring,
And now "a dying fall."
Yet how unlike the measures
Of the sweet Æolian string!
These soothe the heart that's wounded,
Those plant a deeper sting.
Then wind of the dark blue mountains,
Still sweep these trembling strings
Into sweet strains of mournfulness,
With the flutter of thy wings.