Tell me that thou in manhood's throngs wilt bear thee manfully-- That thou wilt trust to those who swear, in love or friendship, truth, And mourn, like me, the illusion o'er, the errors of thy youth. Then be it so--speed on thy race, thro' sunshine and thro' shade: Fair be thy young imaginings--for ah, they all must fade-- And may'st thou, when the visions pass, that o'er thy slumbers bend, When life grows dark, and hearts grow cold, find thou hast still a friend, Whose faith the terrors cannot shake of life's most stormy hour, True to the last, be fortune thine, or when misfortune lower. But still, should keen adversity, rend every human tie, Bear thy proud soul above the wreck, the tempest's rage defy. Look on my face again, fair boy, the clouds have passed away-- I trust thee to that _better guide_, who checks us when we stray. And if the thorn must wound us still, whene'er we pluck the rose, His wisdom, which inflicts, can teach to bear life's many woes. Come then, and kiss thy father, boy,--his brow no more is dark; Smile once again, pursue thy play, and carol like the lark. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO ----. Thou _arch_ magician! [emphasise the arch! I would not--for an office--have it said That I apostrophized another]--march Where'er I will, thy strategy has spread For me, alas! such ambuscades and toils, I fear thou seek'st to add me to thy "spoils." 'Tis, by my holidame! no more a jest To cope with thee, than him, whose subtle schemes Cheat an enlightened people's greatest, best-- While thou art tickling in their downy dreams, Some half score maidens, putting them in mind To play the devil--just as they're inclined. * * * * * With woman's eyes thou hast my heart assailed, Yet I withstood them. Lips and teeth in vain Coral and pearls outshone--form, features failed To bind me captive in thy treacherous chain; I know not why, but fancy some bright shield Hath saved me scathless from the well fought field! * * * * * Perhaps it was her eyes--their flashing light Must have reminded me of quenchless fire: It may have been her teeth--their dazzling white Might hint Tartaric snows than Andes higher, Where shriek the damned from every frozen clime, Warning poor tempted souls to flee from crime.[1] Perhaps her lips foretokened coals as red-- Perhaps her faultlessness of form might tell Of ruined Arch-angelic beauties, led By Love or Pride's seduction, down to hell-- But how 'twas possible I can't divine, To look upon her foot and think of thine! [Footnote 1: A _hot_ region has no terrors for the Laplanders. None but a very _cold_ place of punishment is adapted to their imagination.] For the Southern Literary Messenger. LINES Written in an Album, on pages between which several leaves had been cut out.