The Southern Literary Messenger, Volume I., 1834-35

To a Lady.

Oh! do not sing—my soul is wrung
When those sweet tones salute mine ear;
Thou canst not sing as thou hast sung—
As I have heard, I cannot hear.
Then do not breathe to me one strain
Of those I loved in years gone by;
Their melody can only throw
A darker cloud upon my sky.

Speak not to me!—thine accents fall
By far too sadly on my ear;
They told of love, and hope, and joy—
They tell of life made lone and drear.
No word speak thou! The tones are changed
That breathed to me thy young heart's vow
Of all-enduring fondness; aye!
Thou canst but speak in kindness now.

And worse than all would be the smile
Which once was mine, and only mine;
Thou wert my hope—thy love my pride—
Thy heart my spirit's chosen shrine.
But now—oh! smile not on me now;
'Tis insult—worse, 'tis mockery!
Estranged, and cold, and false, thou art;
Smile if thou wilt—but not on me.

M. S. L.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.