And must I stain this virgin leaf,
So fair, so pure, and so like thee!
It grieves me--but it is thy will;
And that is always law to me.
'Tis said that those who feel the most
Can best describe love's potent spell--
That what the heart most deeply feels,
The tongue most eloquently tells.
Alas! it is an erring rule--
It is not true! it is not true!
Strong Passion's voice was ever low;
And lower yet as Passion grew.
When fiercest winds o'er ocean sweep,
The sea is quell'd--no billows roll
Their foaming crests upon the deep.
Thus Passion treads the very soul
Low in the dust, and bids it weep
In silent anguish--and 'tis still
As the aw'd slave who bows before a despot's will.
Then think not I can tell my love
In well-set phrase, with fitting smiles;
He loves not--Oh! believe it true--
Who knows and practices such wiles.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.