By the way, Lavigne, to his natural gallantry adds somewhat of poetical ability; and it is shrewdly suspected that he is the author of the above song. However that is, whilst he was in the midst of his pathetic strain, with his hand on his heart, and his eye fixed expressively upon Mary, a small manuscript fell from his pocket, which I took possession of, for the purpose of restoring to him after he had finished his song; but the superscription catching my eye, by the clear light of the now risen moon, I concluded to keep it awhile for the purpose of teazing him. I subsequently took a copy; and after hinting most provokingly concerning it at several of our gatherings, in his presence and that of Mary, restored it to him. Here it is— TO MARY, ON HER PRESENTING ME WITH A VIOLET. This gem of vernal breezes bland, How bright its azure beauty shone, When first thy soft and fairy hand, Placed the slight stem within my own. So rich the fragrance round bequeathed By this fair flower—this modest shrine— I thought thou must have on it breathed, With those sweet crimson lips of thine. I placed the blossom next my heart, And fondly hoped its life to stay; But each hour saw its hue depart, Until it withered quite away. Oh! how unlike my love for thee, The blighting of this tiny flower! Time gives it but intensity, And years will but increase its power. For I have shrined thee in my heart, Thou all of Earth’s sweet flowers most sweet; And never thence canst thou depart, Until that heart shall cease to beat. By day thou art my constant thought, Thy sweet, dark eyes I ever see; My dreams are of thy image wrought, And when I wake I think of thee. Loveliest of God’s created things! My soul to thee through life is given; And when that soul takes upward wings, I’ll search for thy bright form in heaven.