O! ever lovely, loving and beloved; Constant in absence; constant in despair! By time unwearied, by caprice unmoved; Thy lover's faith and fame thine only care! Tho' known to none but thee thy minstrel's name, Or who the fair that caused his tender pain; All undistinguished by the voice of fame, The bard who sung; the maid that waked the strain. Yet may'st thou catch the unconscious sympathy Of some soft nymph, who, from her lover's tongue, Hears, with averted look and blush and sigh, Her heart's fond secret in this artless song. But were I skilled to weave the immortal verse, Which after ages with applause would read; Thy praise in fitting accents I'd rehearse, And with unfading bay would crown thy head. Then should my Laura's charms survive the tomb, In strains like that the fairy bulbul sings, When all unseen he wakes the midnight gloom, Hovering o'er beauty's grave on viewless wings. For the Southern Literary Messenger. EXTRACT FROM A LADY'S ALBUM. And must I stain this virgin leaf, So fair, so pure, and so like thee! It grieves me--but it is thy will; And that is always law to me. 'Tis said that those who feel the most Can best describe love's potent spell-- That what the heart most deeply feels, The tongue most eloquently tells. Alas! it is an erring rule-- It is not true! it is not true! Strong Passion's voice was ever low; And lower yet as Passion grew. When fiercest winds o'er ocean sweep, The sea is quell'd--no billows roll Their foaming crests upon the deep. Thus Passion treads the very soul Low in the dust, and bids it weep In silent anguish--and 'tis still As the aw'd slave who bows before a despot's will. Then think not I can tell my love In well-set phrase, with fitting smiles; He loves not--Oh! believe it true-- Who knows and practices such wiles. For the Southern Literary Messenger. THE PRAYER. Oh! mother, whither do they lead This wretched form, this drooping frame? What means the white rose in my hair? These jewels sure are not a dream. Of wither'd leaves 'twere better far The bridal chaplet had been wove-- Oh! mother, lead me back again; _I cannot love--I cannot love!_ Look not for love--it is in vain! Within this heart no more it dwells: Unclasp the volume if thou wilt, And ponder on the truth it tells. Ah! dearest mother, do not seek To warm to life a thing that dies, Nor re-illume the flame, when once The shrine, in hopeless ruin lies. Not to the altar, mother--no, I cannot kneel and speak that vow-- Oh! let me rend these hated gems, And tear the white rose from my brow. Nay, let the dark grave be my couch, Of cypress leaves my bridal wreath, And I will wed,--yes, gladly wed, And clasp my welcome bridegroom, _Death!_ OCTAVIAN. For the Southern Literary Messenger.