_By Mrs. D. P. Brown._
Fair little flow'r, may no rude storm
Impair thy early bloom,--
No cank'rous grief that smile deform,
Or antedate its doom.
In soul be ever as thou art
Mild, merciful, and kind,
Date all enjoyments from the heart,
All conquests from the mind.
The body is an empty thing,
Frail, worthless, weak, and vain;
The _mind_ alone can pleasure bring,
Or soothe the bed of pain.
What is the gaudy casket, when
The priceless jewel's gone?
Such to the eyes of noble men,
Is beauty's charm _alone_.
Fashion may decorate the brow,
Fortune the eye allure,
But nothing _worldly_ can bestow
Those treasures which _endure_.
Then fix, my child, thy hopes above;
All earthly joys deceive:
Rest solely on a Saviour's love,
My gentle daughter _Eve_.
_Philadelphia._
For the Southern Literary Messenger.