Along the devious paths of life,
A wild and wayward wand'rer, I,
Have steered my bark mid passion's strife,
And where destruction's pitfalls lie.
When on a dark and rock-bound shore,
My bark was wildly tempest tost,
And o'er the breakers' sullen roar,
Arose the fearful cry--_all's lost!_
I shrunk not from the raging blast,
But with a bold and reckless hand
I steered her on, till she had past
The stormy sea and rocky strand.
A fierce enthusiast, I have dared
To risk my all, upon one cast,--
Have seen the danger,--nor have feared,
What others looked upon aghast.
Disease has laid her iron hand,
With no weak grasp, my frame upon,
But all her power could not withstand
The spirit which has borne me on.
A demon some have called me--yet,
Admit that with my spirit blends,
A feeling strangely to forget
All thought of self, in aid of friends.
A madman some have deemed me--and,
In sooth, dark shadows often run
Across my mind, as o'er the land,
When darkest clouds obscure the sun.
I often wish to die--and flee
Far, far away from earth, that I
May search the dim unknown, and see
What wonders in its bosom lie.
'Tis not because life has no charm,--
I love the gay and laughing stream;
I love the glowing sunshine warm;
I love Old Luna's silvery beam.
I love to gaze on maiden's eye,
Though it has often been my bane;
I love on courser swift to fly,
Like arrow o'er the flowery plain.
Yet still, my wayward soul will oft,
Cherish the wish to pass that bound,
Which spans this life, and seek aloft
For bliss which here is never found.
But now my lyre begins to fail
I'll cease my lone and wand'ring song.
Fearful lest with my idle wail,
I linger o'er the chords too long.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.