May-flower, the first in Flora's band, I've snatch'd from thy half-open'd hand, And help'd the little Daisy shake From her bright head the light snow-flake; I've watch'd thee while thy crayon spread The first tint on the Violet's head, And wrapt with pleasure, scan'd the grace Thy light touch threw o'er Nature's face-- But more I love thee for thy promise bright, That Man shall spring, revived from Death's cold, wintry night. ELIZA. _Saco, Maine._ [Footnote 1: On the warm banks of the James, this Apostrophe to Spring may probably appear altogether too late for the season, but on the banks of the Saco, where a good fire is still necessary to comfort, and the May-flower, the most daring of our wild flowers, is just putting forth its blossom in token of _approaching_ Spring, it is quite early enough.] For the Southern Literary Messenger. SPRING. Rude Winter's surly storms are gone-- Spring, in her joy, is passing on: Beneath her light and magic tread, Each flow'ret lifts its gentle head: Streamlets, so long in fetters bound, Leap with a glad, reviving sound: Valleys and hills, so long unseen, Glow with a rich and silv'ry green: The Robin's wild and thrilling note, The silence of the grove, has broke: The Bee, for months, in bondage held, Wakes her hum in the wonted field: The Horse and Ox their stalls forsake, In leaping streams, their thirst to slake;-- To seek, on mountain-side and plain, The feast, that Nature spreads again. Nymph, with the sweetly-laughing eye! Where dost thou dwell, when o'er the sky, The murky storms of Winter scowl, And through the leafless valleys howl;-- That thou, the moment they are gone, Doth, lovely still, come tripping on? Go on, upon thy blooming way! I know thou wilt not, canst not, stay; But oft, as on your course you wind, Oh! cast a "ling'ring look behind!" ROY. _Lovingston, April 1, 1835_. For the Southern Literary Messenger TO A. L. B. Author of "_Trust Not_," in the Messenger for February. Scorn not the love of the gentle one! Turn not away from the heart's devotion! Still to its shrine may'st thou be won, And thy bosom be stirr'd with its gentle emotion. Spurn not that treasure! its worth is untold; Bright gems are hid in its deep recesses;-- Fear not that her bosom shall grow cold, When the light is gone from her wavy tresses. There's a fountain of feeling pure and bright, Which the glance of her eye is so gently revealing; Like the twilight dawn of the Summer's light, On the longing sight of the weary stealing. Trust to the love thou hast falsely disdain'd, So shall the trusted deceive thee never; Forget the scorn thou hast falsely claim'd, And the star of thy breast shall be bright forever.