And Ruth said, entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and me.--Ruth i. 16, 17. TO MY WIFE. Where e'er thou goest I will go, And share with thee in weal or wo-- And where thy wearied footsteps rest, Thy head shall pillow on my breast. Thy people shall my people be-- Thy kindred find a friend in me-- Thy God shall be my God--one hope Shall bear our fainting spirits up. My earthly joys with thee shall die, And in thy grave forgotten lie-- So God in justice deal with me, If aught but death part me and thee. HANOVER. For the Southern Literary Messenger. THE KISS.--_A la Moore_. 'Tis a sweet boy! his eye is bright, Smooth is his cheek, and velvet soft, And his rosy, pulpy lips invite The kiss I give, in sooth, full oft. How glows my eye, and my heart, how wild It beats, as I kiss the lovely child! But there's a cause ye little ken, Why thus I love to kiss the boy! If _thou wert absent_, Julia, then, The kiss I love so soon would cloy, 'Twould not be half so oft as now, 'Twould not be half so sweet, I trow. I mark when thy lip presses his, And, ere the dewy moisture's flown, I steal it with another kiss, _And dream I rip it from thy own!_ E'en _such_ a kiss thrills through my heart, What bliss would thine own lips impart! P. H. _Written in the summer of 1827_. For the Southern Literary Messenger. LOVE--MUTUAL BUT HOPELESS. O! the light of thine Eye is the beam that falls Through the narrow grate, on the Dungeon floor, To show the sad captive the strength of his walls, And remind him of joys he must taste no more. And that melting voice is Love's whispered breath, By night through that grated casement stealing, To rouse him from slumbers as heavy as death, To hopeless wishes, and useless feeling. But that voice is dear to his wasted heart, And dear to his eye is that lonely ray; Though they wound his bosom, he loves the smart, Nor wishes for death, but when these are away. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO DESPAIR. Hail to thy tranquil and secure abode, The gloomy refuge of the tortured breast; Where anxious Care resigns his weary load; And wasted Sorrow sighs herself to rest. No treacherous Hope here flatters and deceives, No shortlived Rapture cheats the ravished sense; No airy dreams delirious Fancy weaves; Hope--Rapture--Fancy--all are banished hence. Here Fear, with startling cry, no more appals, For he who knows the worst no harm can dread: And keen affliction's dart as harmless falls, As the vain storm that pelts the senseless dead.