Oh! teach my heart enough to feel, For human woe and human weal. Not that mad zeal, which works by force, And poisons goodness, at its source; But that mild, pure, persuasive love, Which thou hast brought us from above. Thro' thy fair fields, oh! fatal change, Let no distempered _maniac_ range,-- No frantic bigot spoil thy bowers, And blight thy pure and spotless flowers. Still, still, thou pure and heavenly dove, Still speed thy work of perfect love. Pursue the pilgrim on his road, And oh! take off his heavy load. Peace whisper to the troubled breast, And give the weary mourner rest-- And when in that last awful hour, Death shall exert his fatal power, Oh! blunt the print of his keen dart, And sooth the pangs that rend the heart. When the last vital throb shall cease, Oh! be then present, with thy peace: Then let thy healing grace be given To light and waft our souls to Heaven. L. _Pittsylvania_. For the Southern Literary Messenger. BEAUTY AND TIME. [Written under a vignette, representing a branch of roses with a scythe suspended over it, in a Lady's Album.] Emblem of woman's beauty, This blooming rose behold! Time's scythe is hanging o'er it, While yet its leaves unfold. Alas! that Time is ever To Beauty such a foe! How can she shun his power? How ward his withering blow? Has she no art to foil him, And turn his scythe aside? Must she, who conquers others, To him yield up her pride? Yes, yes, there is a conquest That Beauty gains o'er Time: Forget it not, ye fair ones, But prize the homely rhyme. For every charm he pilfers From Beauty's form or face, Upon the mind's fair tablet, Some new attraction trace. Thus, Time's assaults are fruitless, For, when her bloom is o'er, Woman, despite his malice, Is lovelier than before. S[obelisk]. For the Southern Literary Messenger. ANTICIPATION. When life's last parting ray is shed, And darkness shrouds this pallid form; When I have laid this aching head, Secure from ev'ry earthly storm-- Oh! then how sweet it is to think That some fond heart yet warm and true, Will cherish still the severed link Which death's rude hand has snapt in two. Who oft, at evening's pensive hour, From all the busy crowd will steal, To dress the vine and nurse the flower That deck my grave, with pious zeal. And ling'ring there, will lightly tread, As fearful to disturb my sleep, And oft relieve the drooping head Upon her slender hand, and weep. And oh! if in that world which rolls Sublime beyond this earthly sphere, That love still warms departed souls, Which once they fondly cherished here. Oh! yes, if in such hour is given, And parted souls such scenes may see, At that pure hour I'd leave e'en heav'n, And kiss the heart that wept for me. L. _Pittsylvania_. For the Southern Literary Messenger.