TO CLAUDIA.
| Oh! dost thou remember that gladsome hour, When I bowed the knee to thee, And feigned the love of thy captive knight, In playful mimicry?— When the chiding word, on thy trembling lip, Died, faintly murmuring, there, And the ill-feigned smile, on thy blushing cheek, Was drown'd in a bursting tear? Ah! little thou think'st of the years of pain I've paid for that giddy hour, And the anxious thoughts that have ever lain In its memory's magic power: Yet, with all its sorrow, and all its care— Its dreary and hopeless woe— I'd not, its luxury of despair, For the wide world's hopes forego. 'Tis my bosom's dearest and purest shrine, And fountain of holiest thought, Where all that is sacred or divine, Is in deep devotion brought. That smile and tear are the relics there— Embalmed in tears of mine— And the image that claims each fervent prayer, Is that bright, fair form of thine. Thou wast then just op'ning to life's gay bloom, Like springtide's sweetest gleam; And I played with thee, without thought of gloom, Or of startling "Love's young dream." 'Twas the last glad hour of my mirthful youth— My parting hour with thee— And of thy sweet smile of light and truth, 'Twas the last I'll ever see. Since, many a care-cloud of dark'ning blight Hath shaded my youthful brow; And many a sorrow of deadly weight, Lies cold on my bosom now. I've tested the falsehood of life's whole scope, And heed not the clouds that lower; But, mid all the wrecks of my early hope, I cling to that parting hour. Oft, from the dance, and its wild delight, The world, and its hollow glee, I've fled to the silence of moonlit night, To live o'er that hour with thee. 'Tis the one bright spot in this wide, wide waste, That blooms in its beauty yet; And to that I'll turn, while life shall last, From the world's whole love and hate. |
Augusta, Ga.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
CANTILENA AMATORIA.
BY GILES McQUIGGIN.
| Not love thee, Lelia! ask the rocks That gird the mountain stream; Whereon I've knelt and notch'd thy name, By Cynthia's borrowed beam. Not love thee! ask the moss that spreads From Wye-head to the tide, How oft I've roved at midnight's noon, And thought of thee and sigh'd. The ravine winding through the wood, The terrace walk, the grove, Are all the faithful witnesses Of my enduring love. Night's latest star can tell the times I've watch'd it as it rose, When none but it, lone wanderer, Was watcher of my woes. Pale Cynthia! how I've gaz'd on thee, And thought of her whose frown To sorrow's deepest ecstasy Had borne my spirit down. Her doubt is worse than death to one Whose all of earthly bliss Is in the smile that gives her love In sweet return for his. Not love thee, Lelia! witness Heaven, How oft before thy throne, I've bent in humble attitude, To worship thee alone; And her dear image intervened Between my thoughts and thee: Forgive the sin, her sacred form Seemed dear as thou to me. Not love thee! when the life-blood chills That warms my system now— And to the monster's mandate all My body's powers must bow,— Then Lelia thou shalt just begin A holier love to share; And if there are blest homes on high, We'll meet and feel it there. |