For the Southern Literary Messenger.
I have been permitted to copy the original verses which I send you,
from a young lady's album. They were written by a gentleman of literary
merit, whose modesty will probably be somewhat startled at seeing
himself in print. I could not resist the opportunity however, of
adorning the columns of your first number with so fine a specimen of
native genius. According to my poor taste, and humble judgment in such
matters, these lines are beautiful. They are tinged with the deep
misanthropy of Byron, and yet have all the flowing smoothness and
vivacity of Moore. Shall it be said after reading such poetry, that the
muses are altogether neglected in the Ancient Dominion--that there is
no genuine ore in our intellectual mines which with a little labor may
be refined into pure gold? Shall it be longer contended that we are
altogether a nation of talkers, and that politics, summer barbecues and
horse-racing are our all engrossing and exclusive recreations. In
truth, is not this the very land of poetry! Our colonial and
revolutionary history is itself fruitful in the materials of song; and
even our noble rivers--our lofty mountains--our vast and impenetrable
forests--and our warm and prolific sun, are so many sublime sources of
inspiration. With respect to the belle passion,--_that_ has in all
ages, climates and countries, constituted one of the strongest
incitements to poetical genius. The imagination, warmed by impressions
of feminine beauty and innocence, at once takes wing, and wanders
through regions of thought and melancholy--investing the object of its
idolatry with attributes and perfections which more properly belong to
a purer state of being. Whether the philosophy of the subjoined stanzas
is equal to their harmony, I leave to your readers to decide. The
voluntary sacrifice of the heart at the shrine of prudence is doubtless
heroic; but there are few lovers, and especially of the poetic
temperament, who are willing to submit to "brokenness of heart" rather
than encounter the hazard of sharing with a beloved object the "cup of
sorrow." Whether, moreover, the ingenious author was actually breathing
in eloquent earnestness his own "private griefs," or amusing himself
only by the creations of fancy,--I am not prepared to determine. One
thing I do know, however--that the charming nymph in whose album these
lines were written, though not "too dear to love," possesses a heart
both "warm and soft," and is in every respect worthy of all the
admiration which the most romantic lover could bestow.