At this period of his life Forrest was in the habit of writing verses whenever his heart was particularly touched. Quite a number of his effusions, mostly of an amatory cast, were published in the corner of a New Orleans newspaper. A diligent search has brought them to light, together with the fact that the lady to whom the most of them were addressed is yet living in that city, the widow of one of its most influential and wealthy merchants, and that she remembers well her girlish admiration for the handsome young tragedian, and still preserves in manuscript several letters and poems sent to her by him. In his latter days he himself gave the following account of this slight literary episode. "In my youth," he said, "I used to write poetry; that is, as I should say, doggerel. The editor of the 'Louisiana Advertiser' printed it, and encouraged me to compose more. I used to read it over and think it very fine. But after a few years I looked at the pieces again, and was mortified at their worthlessness. Glancing around furtively to see if any one was observing me, I rushed the whole collection into the fire. Oh, it was wretched stuff, infernally poor stuff! Moses Y. Scott satirized my poetry in some lines beginning,-- 'With paces long and sometimes scanty, Thus he rides on with Rosinante!'" A selection of three of the better among these pieces will suffice to satisfy curiosity; and it is to be feared that after perusing them the judgment of the reader will accord with that of Moses Y. Scott. TO ----. "Thy spell, O Love, is elysium to my soul; Freely I yield me to thy sweet control; For other joys let folly's fools contend, Whether to pomp or luxury they tend. Let sages tell us, what they ne'er believe, That love must ever give us cause to grieve; Mine be the bliss C----'s love to prove, To love her still, and still to have her love. If without her of countless worlds possessed, I still should mourn, I still should be unblest. For her I'd yield whole worlds of richest ore,-- Possessed of her, the gods could give no more. For her, though Paradise itself were given, I'd love her still, nor seek another heaven." TO MISS S---- ON HER LEAVING TOWN. "Ah, go not hence, light of my saddened soul! Nor leave me in this absence to lament; Thy going sheds dark chaos o'er the whole,-- A noonday night from angry Heaven sent. "Ah, go not where, now tow'ring to the skies, Malignant hills to separate us rise; For should those smiling eyes, attemp'ring every ray, That now shine sweetly, lambent with celestial day, Averted from me e'er on distant objects roll, Melancholy's deep shade would shroud my lifeless soul.