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That autumn evening I remember yet,
Such an occasion to my dying day;
I knew there was a rival in the case,
But that did not diminish my surprise,
She was extremely sorry, on her soul,
I am not of the family of Stoics,
And thought at first of nothing short of death;
And fell into the most insane heroics,
And raved till altogether out of breath ;
Then took a little walk to make my mind up,
Philosophy, however, is the only
Balm for the evils of this changing life;
Husbands and youthful bachelors may find, too.
And so I called it one more bubble broken,
I left my lodgings in the morning stage,
Some cherry lips, bright eyes, and well cut noses.
And when again the city of my birth
Of love unchangeable and burning passion,
I often see her in the bright saloon,
And sometimes turn her in the gay cotillion;
Mary! my love was centred all in thee,
With thought of thee my every hope was blended;
My dream has vanished, and my vision ended;
My cheek shall never blanch, nor my voice falter.
I hope that heaven may crown thy life with joys,
Farewell! my life may wear a careless smile,
BY EDWARD C. PINKNEY.
I FILL this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon; To whom the better elements and kindly stars have
A form so fair, that, like the air, 't is less of earth than heaven.
Her every tone is music's own, like those of morning birds,
And something more than melody dwells ever in her words;
The coinage of her heart are they, and from her lips each flows
As one may see the burdened bee forth issue from the rose.
Affections are as thoughts to her, the measure of her hours;
Her feelings have the fragrance and the freshness of young flowers;
And lonely passions changing oft, so fill her, she
The image of themselves by turns—the idol of past
TO A CHILD.
Of her bright face one glance will trace a picture
on the brain,
And of her voice in echoing hearts a sound must long remain;
But memory such as mine of her so very much endears,
When death is nigh, my latest sigh will not be life's, but hers.
I fill this cup to one made up of loveliness alone, A woman, of her gentle sex the seeming paragon--Her health! and would on earth there stood some *more of such a frame,
That life might be all poetry, and weariness a name.
TO A CHILD.
"The memory of thy name, dear one,
Lives in my inmost heart,
Linked with a thousand hopes and fears,
THINGS of high import sound I in thine ears,
But hoard them up, and in thy coming years
Forget them not; and when earth's tempests lower,
4 talisman unto thee shall they be,