For the Southern Literary Messenger.
LINES.
——through the vigils of the joyless day and the broken dreams of the night, there was a charm upon his soul—a hell within himself; and the curse of his sentence was never to forget.—Falkland.
| There is a thought that still obtrudes in lone and festive hours; It falls upon my withered heart like desert winds on flowers: Oh! read it in my altered brow and in my sunken eye, I cannot speak it, for the words upon my lips would die. At evening when I muse alone and calmer visions rise, Such as will sometimes swim before the veriest wretch's eyes, That thought will start up suddenly, like spectre from the graves, And rend the fragile web of joys poor Fancy idly weaves. In scenes of mirth and revelry I mingle—'tis in vain— My spirit finds no Lethe in the cup I madly drain; And when I strive to laugh, like those whose hearts are light and free— What ghastly echo of their mirth!—what bitter mockery! Alas! the silver chord is loosed—the golden bowl is broken; Remembrance strews my blighted path with many a bitter token; And on my heart a fearful sign is set forever more— A burning seal like that they say the wandering Hebrew bore. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
FAREWELL TO ROSA.
| Rosa, Rosa, first and fairest, Best beloved and ever dearest, How shall I tear myself away, Nor all the tender thoughts convey, Which my swoll'n bosom bursts to tell At bidding thee this last farewell. But mark not thou the changing cheek, The swimming eye, and accent weak, The quivering lip, and pallid brow, These signs of grief, oh! mark not thou, Nor see my vain attempt to hide Love's softness in the look of Pride. My gloomy look, my mournful sigh, Thou must not see, thou must not hear, Nor, Rosa, must thou ask me, why I brush away the gathered tear; Thou must not seek the veil to move, Which honor throws o'er hopeless love. I know 'twould grieve they gentle heart To feel that thou art all the cause, That these unnumbered tears now start In eyes which were, while hope yet was, As bright as ever Love lit up, To beam on Pleasure's sparkling cup. My peace of mind forever fled, My hopes of future fame destroyed, My only tree of promise dead, Its fruit all blighted ere enjoyed, And gone the light that cheered my morn Of life, ere half its hours were worn. Live thou unconscious of the grief A hopeless passion wakes in me; It would not yield my heart relief To know its pangs were shared by thee; Let me but feel thy bliss secure, And know no sorrows threaten thee, And I can unsubdued endure All Fortune's malice heaps on me. But when some wild secluded spot Shall mark my life's eventless round; And when an humble lonely cot My once ambitious hopes shall bound; Oh! Rosa, let one sigh regret The hours that I can ne'er forget. |