Written in an Album, on pages between which several leaves had been
cut out.
What leaves were these so rudely torn away?
Whose immortality thus roughly foiled?
What aphoristic dogs have had their day,
And of their hopes been suddenly despoiled?
Whose leaf was this? and what the bay-wreath'd name
Which here its glowing fancies did rehearse?
What was the subject which it doomed to Fame?
Whose knife or scissors did that doom reverse?
Here gallant knights, imagining the wings
Of the famed Pegasus sustained them, soaring,
Fiddled, thou false one! on their own heartstrings,
Whilst thou thy soul in laughter wert outpouring!
A score of petty minstrels might have lain,
And, like the Abbey Sleepers, found good lying
In this brief space--but none, alas! remain,
Thou'st sent their ashes to the four winds flying!
Behold my Muse, Colossus like, bestride
The fallen honors of each beau and lover--
Ghosts of departed songs, that here have died,
How many of ye now do o'er me hover?
Methought I heard ye then, as first ye threw
Your soft imaginings in dreamy numbers,
And o'er my soul the sweet enchantment flew
Like music faintly heard in midnight slumbers.
* * * * *
When whim, or chance, or spite, _my_ leaf shall tear,
Grant me in turn, ye fates! some gentle poet--
One who shall lie with such a grace, you'd swear
That if indeed he lied, he did'nt know it!
For the Southern Literary Messenger.