Mr. Ballou was often solicited, by letters from a distance, for his autograph, with which he complied in a brief line, most generally; but personal applications for this object were very frequent during his journeyings from home. Being asked for his autograph by a young lady in one of the neighboring towns, who handed him her album for the purpose, he sat down and wrote the following verses impromptu, and which have been handed to us for insertion here. They will serve to show his ready power of versification; he never studied to be a poet, nor ever _labored_ upon a piece of poetical composition. He found little time to plant and rear flowers along his pathway of life. At an early period the soil he tilled was of too bold and rugged a character to cultivate aught save the sterling literal seeds of truth, the sweetness of whose blossoms is fragrance to the soul. If subsequently he sometimes plucked a lily or watered a rose-bud, it has been at breathing-spells between the holding of the plough and the planting of seed in his Master's vineyard. He lacked not for refinement and delicacy of taste, or for the natural promptings of the poet, but there was more important business for him to perform, and he realized too fully his responsibility to allow himself to forget for a moment the great aim and business of his mission. The poem referred to above is entitled THE MYRTLE. "Come, take the wreath I've twined for thee, 'Tis wet with morning dew; And lessons rare of love and truth These flowers shall bring to you. The half-blown rose, whose spotless leaves Speak of thy hopes as fair, And spicy balm, with healing breath, Are mingling odors there. The sweet geranium so green A fragrance doth impart, True as the gentle breath of love, That fills the youthful heart. But most of all I'd have thee mark The modest myrtle bough; It speaks of love that e'er will be As pure and bright as now. For though the rose may fade and die, The balm may cease to cure, Through summer's light and winter's shade The MYRTLE will endure. Then take the wreath I've twined for thee, 'Tis wet with morning dew; And many a lesson true of love These flowers shall bring to you." We find a letter among our papers, written about the period of which we now speak. It is from his pen, and bears date New York, April 21st, 1839, on the occasion of a brief visit to that city, and was addressed to the author of these pages.