Apropos--Madame F. lately gave us a most interesting account of her Highness' children, the little Duke of Bordeaux and M'lle Louise. She says they are both remarkably amiable and _le petit Duc_ holds a levee daily, is dressed _en militaire_ and assumes all the airs of a grown gentleman. He is so proud of his sword, that the severest penalty his tutor can inflict, when he misbehaves, is to deprive him of it. He is a pretty boy--we have often met him taking an airing in his coach and four, surrounded by gens d'armes, for the Bourbons are so unpopular that for fear of his sharing the fate of his father, he is always strongly guarded whenever he appears in public. He pays dearly for his lineage, poor little fellow! and I never see him without thinking sorrowfully of the probability of his perishing by the ruthless hand of an assassin. But mercy! what a packet. Have patience dearest! with your LEONTINE. For the Southern Literary Messenger. LINES In recollection of Thomas H. White, who died at Richmond, Va. October 7, 1832, aged 19 years. Was it a dream? It has pass'd away As vanish dreams at the rising day,-- That graceful form, from the Saco's side, That loved the leap of its dashing tide, And watched full long, in the mild Moon's ray, The rainbow tints of the rising spray. Fair was that form; and the feature's glow, True to the pulse of the Heart's warm flow, Heighten'd at thought of those friends afar, Who the aspect watched of his rising star; With fervent prayer that that star might shed Benignant influence upon his head. With heart as joyous, and foot as light As the wild young roe, he scaled the height-- The crystal sought in its mountain-bed, And the fragrant wild flowers gathered; Nature he loved in her freakish mood-- And sought her, deep in her solitude. * * * * * He is not now where the rapids play, Or moonlight tinctures the rising spray; Nor like the roe on the craggy height, With heart as gay, and a foot as light;-- Did he hear the howl of the frost-god nigh, And fly like the Birds to his native sky? His native sky?--Ah! it brightly glows-- It cheers the bird and it scents the rose; It wakes all nature to songs of joy-- _But it smiles all vainly on thee, sweet Boy!_ They laid, who loved thee, all lone and deep, On the James' green shore, in thy last, long sleep! Yes! 'twas a dream of Life's dreamy day! Beautiful, fleeting, and vain as they! Dreams of the heart, the mind, the eye, Belov'd, how dearly!--how soon to fly! They fade, they vanish, e'er dawns the morrow, And the heart is left to its night of sorrow. ELIZA. _Saco, Maine_. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO SPRING.[1] Not since the world's first blushing Spring Hath warmer, truer offering Than mine, by minstrel, muse, or maid, Been on thy rose-wreathed altar laid.