The wily Queen at the lattice placed Twin vases, rich and rare, Each with a cluster of blossoms graced, Beautiful, bright and fair. Roses, the glory of Sharon's vale-- Lilies of thousand hues, Such as are rock'd by Judean gales And nursed by her crystal dews, Mingled in beauty their tints of light;-- "Which," said the royal dame, "Are the fresh-born buds of the day and night? And which from the artist came?" The Tyrian dyes and the Tyrian skill, Glow'd in the art-made flowers,-- Those that were nursed by the gurgling rill Or petted in Flora's bowers, No grace of fashion or shade could show With the beauteous things to vie; Alas! for him who the truth must know Alone by his own keen eye. But the lattice ope'd on a soft parterre That blushed to the sun's warm kiss, And Bees at their nectar banquet there Revelled in summer bliss. "Open the lattice," the Monarch cried-- Sweet in the melting ray The humid blossoms the Bees descried, And pilfered the sweets away. Trembled in pride on their wiry stems The flowers that the artist made, But show'd not a cup where the honied gems Or soft farina laid. _Fragrance was not!_ oh! the blighted heart, Lured in a fatal hour, By the dazzling glow of deceptive art, Like a Bee to the scentless flower,-- How it turns in the blight of its grief away From the figure that _looks_ so fair, But in Love's own blessed, unclouded ray, Is soulless and senseless there! ELIZA. _Maine_. For the Southern Literary Messenger. A TALE OF THE WEST. FOUNDED ON FACT. The course of true love never did run smooth.--_Shakspeare_.