_Lines written in a Young Lady's Album._
_Air_--"The Bride."
I'd offer thee this heart of mine,
If I could love thee less;
But hearts as warm, as soft as thine,
Should never know distress.
My fortune is too hard for thee,
'Twould chill thy dearest joy:
I'd rather weep to see thee free,
Than win thee to destroy.
I leave thee in thy happiness,
As one too dear to love!
As one I'll think of but to bless,
Whilst wretchedly I rove.
But oh! when sorrow's cup I drink,
All bitter though it be,
How sweet to me 'twill be, to think
It holds no drop for thee.
Then fare thee well! An exile now,
Without a friend or home,
With anguish written on my brow,
About the world I'll roam.
For all my dreams are sadly o'er--
_Fate_ bade them all depart,--
And I will leave my native shore,
In brokenness of heart.
S.
Our young correspondent "M'C." will perceive that his poem has been
altered in some of its expressions, and perhaps not altogether to his
liking. Our object has been, not to damp the aspirations of genius, but
to prune its luxuriance. The ardour of youth too often betrays into
extravagance, which can only be corrected by cultivation and
experience. We hope that he will persevere in his invocations to the
muse,--believing that the time will come when she will amply reward him
by her smiles.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.