In jocund _boyhood_ erst her magic face Impressed no feeling but a gentle joy; For moonlit memory knew not then to trace The saddened scenes of youth that later hopes alloy. When dawning _manhood_, fired by fancy's ray, Enrobed all nature in her rainbow hues, Then fond affection loved at eve to stray And, gazing on the Moon, with thrilling heart to muse. But when _advancing years_ have broke the ties Formed at the altar of the Moonlit Heaven, The thoughts of buried joys in sadness rise, And tear-drops glisten in the silent light of even. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO HOPE. O! ever skilled to wear the form we love! To bid the shapes of fear and grief depart, Come gentle Hope! with one soft smile remove The wasting sadness of an aching heart. Thy voice benign, enchantress let me hear; Say that for me some pleasures yet shall bloom; That Fancy's radiance. Friendship's precious tear Shall brighten or shall soothe misfortune's gloom. But come not glowing with the dazzling ray, Which once, with dear illusions charmed my eye! O! strew no more, sweet flatterer! on my way, The flowers I fondly thought too bright to die. Visions less fair will soothe my pensive breast, That asks not Happiness, but longs for rest. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO THE BIBLE. Go, Holy Book! Tell those whom many woes assail On thee to look; They'll find how weak it is to wail Though every earthly comfort fail. The Orphan's tear Go wipe away, and bid his heart To be of cheer; Heal thou his bosom's sorest smart, And gild with Hope misfortune's dart. Say thou to those, Shut out from every good on earth, Lost to repose, Baptized in sorrow at their birth, That worldly joy's of little worth. The poor soul tell, The poor, lone, wretched, friendless man, Though his heart swell, The ways of God, he must not scan-- But trust the Universal plan. Tell poor disease, Bravely to bear the piercing pain; Eternal ease, Waits those who do not poorly plain, And worldly loss is heavenly gain. Tell those who sigh Over some friend's untimely doom, That all must die; He whom they saw laid in the tomb, In God's own paradise may bloom. Go, say to those Doom'd still to groan and till the soil, That soon repose Shall wipe away their drops of toil, And stay for aye their weary moil. Tell those who pine In the damp dungeon's dreary gloom, There yet will shine Through their poor melancholy dome, A light to guide their footsteps home. Tell the Pilgrim, When storms are blackening round his head, 'Tis good for him; What though his thorn torn feet have bled, The heart's blood of his God was shed.