I will not cross thy path again While Earth shall stand or Ocean roll, For thou hast rent the bond in twain That fetter'd long my struggling soul. For me the world no more can bring A smile to love, a frown to fear; The bird that soars on wildest wing, Hath stronger ties to chain him here. To-morrow's sun shall sink to me Beneath lone ocean's caverns deep-- To-morrow's sun shall glide from thee, Behind yon forest's waving sweep. And thou shalt mark his farewell beams O'er lov'd familiar objects play; But will they rouse the fairy dreams That once endear'd the close of day? I shall not heed, in climes afar, Thy name--'twill be a sound unheard, And time and distance doubly mar The fitful dream that thou hast stirr'd. I shall not long remember thee, Mid' prouder schemes and objects strange; Thy scorn hath set the captive free, And boundless now shall be his range. And while a sunder'd path shall own My bosom now, as cold as thine, To me thy doom shall rest unknown, As thou shalt nothing know of mine. If o'er thee pale disease should creep And mark thee for an early grave,-- No mourning voice shall cross the deep, No tear shall swell the eastern wave. If long and blest thy life should be, And fall like leaves when frost is come,-- Unconscious all, the sullen sea Will bear no echo from thy tomb. Unknown must be thy smiles or tears: Yet sometimes, at the farewell hour, The book of fate unclasp'd appears, And half imparts a prophet's power. Try to forget! The time may be When Fancy shall withhold her sway, And blissful dreams no more for thee Shall sport in sunset's golden ray. Try to forget! Thy calm of pride May sink to waveless, waste despair, Like her whose homeward glance descried Heaven's shower of flame descending there. Try to forget! Thy peace of mind May change to passion's blasting storm; When spirits of the past unbind The shroud from Pleasure's faded form. Pray to forget! When chill disdain Shall haply tell that love is fled, And thou shalt gaze, but gaze in vain, On eyes where Passion's light is dead; Then turn thee not to former days-- Remember not this hour of pride That banish'd one, who but to raise, To shield, to bless thee, would have died. The shaft that flies from Sorrow's bow When Fate would sternest wrath employ, Is far less steel'd with present woe Than poison'd with remember'd joy. _Norfolk, September 13, 1834_. For the Southern Literary Messenger. MY NATIVE LAND. BY LUCY T. JOHNSON. I return'd to my own native land, And I sought for the spot I had loved, Where the rose and the lily had bloom'd 'neath my hand, And my footsteps in childhood had roved.