Could F----'s throbbing bosom beat Victims on victims to ensnare: Point to the lovers at her feet, And proudly count the captives there? No, lady no! to honor true, Thou would'st not--could'st not thus appear-- Triumphs like these would seem to you, Too dearly purchased to be dear. These, these are arts alone allied To spirits yet akin to earth; The generous soul with nobler pride Spurns the poor trick, and trusts to worth. Yes, lady yes! such worth as thine, Which kindred worth and genius rules, To baser spirits may resign The mad idolatry of fools. H. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO MARY. _Tune_.--Gramachree. The vernal month comes on with flowers To deck the plains around, No more the frown of winter lowers, Or chills the fertile ground. The snow-white lily, nature's pride, Now blooms in every vale, The rose breathes fragrance far and wide, And perfumes every gale. The vocal thrush pours forth her note To hail the gladsome morn, And every warbler strains his throat, From garden, brake, and thorn. Come then, dear Mary, let us fly To join the impassioned lay, And pluck each flower whose modest eye Just opens into day. And whilst we view the sweetest charms That grace the new born year, I'll fold thee gently in my arms, And crush each budding care. I'll say the blush upon thy cheek Outvies the rose's hue, The lily blooming o'er the vale, No purer is than you. But soon kind nature's sweetest flowers Will wither and decay, And that bright glow which decks thy cheek, Like them will fade away: But let not this alarm thy peace, Nor tremble at thy doom, For though the flush of youth will cease, Thy soul shall ever bloom. For the Southern Literary Messenger. SONG. I will twine me a wreath of life's withering flowers, And bind with their brightness this aching heart, And wear a smile through the long, long hours, As if in their gladness I bore a part. I will seek mid the gay and festive throng, To check each thought of the love I cherished, And playfully murmur his favorite song, As if not a tone of its sweetness had perished. Tho' the flowers of feeling are fallen and faded, Yet the fragrance of memory may still remain:-- And the heart by their withered leaves o'ershaded, May hide the wound though it nurse the pain. And if ever we meet upon earth again, He shall not know it by word or by token: For the eye shall still sparkle, though only with pain, And the lip wear a smile, while the heart may be broken. MORNA. For the Southern Literary Messenger. REMEMBER ME, LOVE. By the late Mrs. ANN ROY, of Mathews county, Virginia.