A purfled Oreole sate upon a bough
Above me, and with gentle carollings
Shook the still air; e'er raining on my brow
The dewy globules, with her restless wings:
I love the bird,--I love the song she sings!
For that I heard it by a lonely stream
In days, when love and hope were rainbow things:
The sweet bird soothed me, but my brain will teem
Full many a mirthless eve, with fragments of that dream!
_Winchester, Va._
For the Southern Literary Messenger.