The following beautiful reply to the stanzas of Mr. Wilde, published in the first number of the Messenger, is attributed to Mrs. Buckley, the wife of a distinguished physician of Baltimore, a lady whose fine taste and poetic capacity are most happily displayed in these touching lines. The answer is a very perfect counterpart of Mr. Wilde's stanzas, and if we were called on to decide upon their relative merits, we do not know which of the two would most demand our admiration. ANSWER To "_My Life is Like the Summer Rose_." The dews of night may fall from Heaven, Upon the wither'd _rose's_ bed, And tears of fond regret be given, To mourn the virtues of the dead: Yet morning's sun the dews will dry, And tears will fade from sorrow's eye, Affection's pangs be lull'd to sleep, And even love forget to _weep_. The _tree_ may mourn its fallen _leaf_, And autumn winds bewail its bloom, And friends may heave the sigh of grief, O'er those who sleep within the tomb: Yet soon will spring renew the flowers, And time will bring more smiling hours; In friendship's heart all grief will die, And even love forget to _sigh_. The _sea_ may on the desert _shore_ Lament each _trace_ it bears away; The lonely heart its grief may pour O'er cherish'd friendship's fast decay: Yet when all trace is lost and gone, The waves dance bright and gaily on; Thus soon affection's bonds are torn, And even love forgets to _mourn_. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO ---- ---- We parted--not as lovers part-- No tear was in thine eye; No mantling blush was on thy cheek, Thy bosom heaved no sigh; Yet there was something in thine air That seemed to all unmoved,-- Something that told my bursting heart, Dearest, that I was loved. For, when I took thy gentle hand To bid a short adieu, Methought within my trembling clasp, That white hand trembled too; And when too, from my faltering tongue The parting accents fell, Thou didst not, dearest--can it be Thou couldst not say farewell! Forgive, if I have boldly erred-- If fancy 'twere alone, That check'd thy voice, and lent thy hand The tremors of my own. Forgive, forgive the daring thought-- Forgive the hopes--the love-- That bids me seek thee soon again, My bliss or wo to prove. T. H. T. For the Southern Literary Messenger. WHAT I LOVE. I love to stray at early morn, 'Mid flowers along the verdant dale, Inhale the fragrance of the thorn, And hear the Dove's low plaintive wail. I love within some forest deep, At sultry noon reclined to lie, And watch the fleecy clouds that creep, With quiet pace along the sky. I love at quiet eve to go, Far from the noisy crowd, and dream Of all the glorious hopes which throw Their sunshine o'er life's gloomy stream.