Mary, I thought thee lovely then-- Oh! may'st thou long thy charms retain, And ne'er thine eyes their witness bear To any but compassion's tear! May life's fast flowing stream, for thee Roll smoothly bright, and buoyantly-- Bearing thee calmly on thy way, To realms of ever-shining day; To regions of eternal peace, Where joys live on and sorrows cease. E. A. S. For the Southern Literary Messenger. LINES Written on the Pillar erecting by Mrs. Barlow, to the memory of her husband, Minister of the United States at Paris. Where o'er the Polish desarts trackless way, Relentless Winter rules with savage sway, Where the shrill polar storms, as wild they blow, Seem to repeat some plaint of mortal woe; Far o'er the cheerless space, the traveller's eye Shall this recording pillar long descry, And give the sod a tear where Barlow lies, He who was simply great and nobly wise; Here led by Patriot zeal, he met his doom, And found amid the frozen wastes a tomb-- Far from his native soil the Poet fell, Far from that Western World he sung so well. Nor she, so long beloved, nor she was nigh, To catch the dying look--the parting sigh! She, who, the hopeless anguish to beguile, In fond memorial rears the funeral pile; Whose widowed bosom, on Columbia's shore, Shall mourn the moments that return no more-- While bending o'er the broad Atlantic wave, Sad fancy hovers on the distant grave. H. M. WILLIAMS. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND ME. Memory! within thy deepest cell A recollection glows; A burning thought--whose magic spell Can charm away my woes: It gushes o'er my troubled soul In lava streams of joy, Its talismanic power can roll The darkness from my sky; It thrills my heart with ecstacy, That ever present thought! And, oh! it were too sweet to die With mind so richly fraught: And who is she for whom my heart, My feelings, harmonize? And who is she that has the art To chain my sympathies?