LINES.
| When in my life's propitious morn The sun of joy and hope once smiled, Fair Poesy, of Pleasure born, Each fancied sorrow oft beguiled. But when the blast of real woe Withered the brightness of my soul— Bade me to dream of bliss no more, And yet denied the Lethean bowl, Did Poesy, like that bright star That burns upon the brow of night, Scatter misfortune's clouds afar, And with her beauty glad my sight? Ah, no! She flies the wretched breast, To seek the gay and happy throng; In mirth's soft bowers she loves to rest, And speed the flying hours along. Where fountains play, and flowrets bloom, And where no thoughts of care intrude, To beauty's halls the Muse has flown, And left me to my solitude. But lo! a fairer form appears, On heavenly pinions hovering nigh; She bids me dry repining tears, And points me to her native sky. She tells me of repose and peace Which to the pure in heart are given, And bids my sorrowing bosom cease To mourn for those who're blest in heaven. Religion! on thy brow doth glow The rainbow hues of hope and joy; That perfect peace thou canst bestow, Which nothing earthly can destroy. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
STANZAS.
| The moon as brightly shines to-night, The scene as lovely ought to be, As when I gazed upon its light And thought sweet Hope was born for me; 'Tis I am changed, and not the hour— Alas! the darkness centres here; No clouds about yon planet lower, I only view it through a tear. Soft, lovely orb! some smiling eye Ev'n now reposes on thy beams, Some maid that never breathed a sigh, Forsakes for thee her tranquil dreams; Methinks I view her buoyant breast, And mark the hopes that tremble there; I also dreamed that I was blest, 'Till waked from slumber by a tear. |
F. L. B.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.