MORNA.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
LINES
Written on being accused of coldness of character and manners by some friends—1830.
| They call me cold—they know me not, nor can they understand The warmth of my affections, by the breeze of kindness fanned; My feelings may not show themselves in countenance or voice, But my heart can weep with those who weep—with those who sing, rejoice! My best affections lie concealed—I bring them not to light, For I know that those with whom I dwell can never read them right; But their fountain, tho' it calmly flow, is warm and full and deep, And the stream of love within my breast, tho' silent, does not sleep. To all the dearest ties of life I cling most tenderly; And the few whose unbought love is mine, compose the world to me: It is not those who feel the most their feelings best express, Nor those the most sincerely fond, who with the tongue can bless— The paltry counterfeit may shine with radiancy as bright As the costly gem which monarchs wear—may look as pure and white; The artificial rose may glow with a color full as fair As the lovely flower which nature rears in sunshine and in air; 'Tis time, and time alone, can show the real gem and flower, And time will oft on those we love, exert its magic power; It may change the beaming smiles to frowns, kind greetings to disdain, And cause the seeming friend to scorn our poverty and pain. Oh! it is not thus with me, I know, the tide of feeling flows; Affection may not speak in looks, but in my bosom glows, With a warmth which time can never chill, scarce injuries suppress, And my heart responds to every tone of the voice of tenderness. |
E. A. S.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.