The following beautiful lines have been very generally ascribed to the pen of the Hon. R. H. Wilde, a member of the present House of Representatives from the State of Georgia. We do not know that Mr. W. has ever confessed the authorship, but we think that they would not discredit even their supposed origin. We have had the pleasure to read some of Mr. Wilde's brilliant speeches in Congress, and we are confident that they are the emanations of a mind deeply imbued with the spirit of poesy. Not that we thence necessarily infer that these lines are the genuine offspring of his muse--but merely allude to the character of his parliamentary efforts, in connexion with the common opinion that the poetry is from the same source. One of our present objects is to give what we conceive to be a correct version of these admired lines; for in almost all the copies we have seen, we have been struck with several gross errors, alike injurious to their sense and harmony. Not the least remarkable of these errors has been the uniform substitution of _Tempè_ for some other word,--thereby imputing to the author the geographical blunder of converting the delightful and classic valley of Greece, into a desert shore or strand. We have no doubt that _Tampa_ is the word originally written by the author, there being a bay of that name in Florida sometimes described on the maps as the bay of Espiritu Santo. MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE. My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, And ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground to die; Yet on that rose's humble bed The softest dews of night are shed As though she wept such waste to see, But none shall drop one tear for me! My life is like the autumn leaf Which trembles in the moon's pale ray, Its hold is frail, its date is brief, Restless;--and soon to pass away: Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade The parent tree will mourn its shade, The wind bemoan the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the print, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand, Soon as the rising tide shall beat Their trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none shall thus lament for me. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER EVE. _By Mrs. D. P. Brown._ Fair little flow'r, may no rude storm Impair thy early bloom,-- No cank'rous grief that smile deform, Or antedate its doom. In soul be ever as thou art Mild, merciful, and kind, Date all enjoyments from the heart, All conquests from the mind. The body is an empty thing, Frail, worthless, weak, and vain; The _mind_ alone can pleasure bring, Or soothe the bed of pain. {14} What is the gaudy casket, when The priceless jewel's gone? Such to the eyes of noble men, Is beauty's charm _alone_.