So _you're changing your colors_, I see, master White, But say now d'ye think it is perfectly right? Yet I own, on reflection, it is not so wrong, And the reason, I think, is sufficiently strong: Give it up? Then I'll tell you at once to your shame, _You're a man of all colors yourself_--by your _name_; For all the seven colors, you know, must unite To make the commixture that people call _white_. P. Q. For the Southern Literary Messenger. MR. WHITE,--On looking over a young lady's Album a few evenings since, I met with the following lines, of which, with her permission, I immediately took a copy. I now enclose them to you for insertion in the Messenger, hoping that some one of your numerous readers may not only be able to tell me in what language they are written, but let me still further into the secret by giving me a translation of them. "'Adhmhur mar dhia neo bhasmhor 'ta "'N t'oglach gu caidreach a shuis re d' sqa: "Sa chluin, sa chìth re faad na hùin "Do bhriara droigheal, 's do fhrea gradh cùin." I was also allowed to transcribe from the same source, two other pieces which I send you herewith, under an impression that they are well worthy a place in your interesting miscellany. * * * STANZAS ADDRESSED TO MISS ----. Younger heads will bow before thee, Younger hearts than mine adore thee, Younger lips due praises sing thee, Younger hands choice flowers shall bring thee-- But when Time's unmelting frost, Once hath chill'd Love's altar-flame, Breasts, to passion's impulse lost, Never after burn the same: Then what has Age like mine to do With youthful Beauty, pretty Lou? Brighter eyes will sparkle near thee, Quicker ears rejoice to hear thee, Gayer forms around thee pressing, Woo thy gentle arms' caressing: But when Fate's severest blow, Bursts the heart's most cherish'd ties; Lays its long-nurs'd wishes low, Hope dismay'd from misery flies: Then what has grief like mine to do With joyous Beauty, pretty Lou? For the Southern Literary Messenger. THE SYBIL'S LEAF. Raven-hair'd! and yet so fair, in opening youth! Dark-eyed! with snowy brow of beaming truth! How can thy Destiny but happy be? Loved of a hundred hearts! bright rising star! Light that shall bless admiring eyes afar! How many breasts shall wildly throb for thee? Thine too, for one of kindred worth shall sigh, With thought deep-seated in his soft blue eye, Fair, but with sun-tinged roses on his cheek; Liberal in speech, in action bold and free, Save when with timid love he bows to thee And silent muses what he dare not speak. Thou hast not yet beheld, but shalt ere long-- And loved, drink in the music of his tongue, And feel thy bosom a strange thrill pervade:-- Fortune and health shall on your union smile, And lisping lips shall every care beguile, Till late in peace, thy lamp of life shall fade. For the Southern Literary Messenger.