University of Virginia Library

Dear Bess, whilst free from noise or strife,
You lead a lone, secluded life;
Enjoy the sweets that young content,
Affords you in your banishment;
And in the forest 'neath some oak,
O'er which the storm of years has broke,
Calmly the wheeling hours survey,
As slow they bear along the day,
Whilst birds and bees with pleasing hum,
Attend the sisters as they come,
With flow'rs of spring their locks enwreathing
O'er which some sylph-like form is breathing,
Rich incense that may well compare,
With flow'rs that gem Aurora's hair.
There, free from all that might oppose
Your bosoms peace and full cheek's rose,
Careless of fashion's cares, delighted
To wander only near some brook,
Undimn'd by fear and unbenighted,
With ruin'd hope and heart forsook.
Methinks dear Bess, I see thee now,
With lightsome bosom, smiling brow,
And eyes that twinkle as they view,
The scrawl your Emmy sends to you,
Descriptive of her bosom's cares,
Her fading hopes, her trembling fears.
'Tis as you oft have said—my heart
Has really play'd a foolish part:
Yet tho' the consequence is pain,
Confusing, rending soul and brain,
So sweet has been the bliss I've tasted,
In the short dream of love I've known
That I regret not all I've wasted—
The peace of youth—contentment flown—
The dreams of early hope, the hours,
Of mingling rainbows, suns and flow'rs,
Which time, with rising storms and blights,
Can shade, eclipse, and rend away,
And bid dark, cheerless winter nights,
Succeed the smiles of summer day!
I weep not in that apathy—
That dream-like more than vacancy,
That dearth of thought and passions reign,
That lost me all of in-content;
I weep them not, nor would again,
Recal them from their banishment!
Could I those hours of bliss renew,
That came so rich, and yet so few!
But never more, shall peace I fear,
Renew her empire in my soul,
The clouds of feeling's own despair,
Hath bade its with'ring mildew roll;
And I, self-sacrificed deplore,
The much I've lost—and fear the more!
Last winter Bess, you may remember
The time I speak of—'twas December,
Somewhere about the last, I came
To see the old year close with you,
With head all romance, heart all flame,
Yet mingled with some feeling too.
That time you well may recollect,
My horses frolic, in the chace,
Who bounded, ere my hand had check'd
The curb-rein, to a furious race.
'Twas then—unlimited—my fear
Pronounced one shriek of wild despair;
And when I least expected aid,
And look'd on death as certain now,
And closed my tearful eyes, afraid
To look upon my fate—I found
My steed was stop'd, I look'd around,
And met an eye so bright—a brow
Of such pure white, unmingled snow;
That lost in one delirious trance,
I dared not once again to glance,
Nor bade my coursers steps advance;
'Till he in tones that fell as sweet,
As sighs of lovers when they meet,
Now gently ask'd—if he might ride,
(Fearful my steed might once again,
Require a stronger curbing rein)
Attendant by my side?
What could I do or say, I blush'd,
And stammer'd something, which might be,
My thanks for aught I know—'till rush'd
My blood in streams tumultuously!
Since then my gratitude has been,
The parent of another feeling,
On which I would, but cannot lean,
And should not be revealing.
Generous, until the extent he knew,
Of all the love my bosom bore,
I dared to think his bosom true,
And sought to know no more.
And when he learnt his pow'r and felt;
How warm, devotedly, I loved
With earnest eye no more he dwelt,
On charms that once had moved,
Neglected where they once could melt,
And where they reign'd, reprov'd.

Still I was not unblest—he came,
And tho' no more with looks of flame,
And words of passion, that could tell,
All that he once could feel so well,
Yet was he not unkind—his look
The smile of love had not forsook,
And even estranged, his languid eye,
Bore still the trace of sympathy!
But yesterday—he came—I went
To meet him with the smile which still
My cheek retain'd, tho' not content—
Depending on a wayward will,
For that heart-sustenance, which flown,
Bears all the peace away, once known.
“He came,” he said “to bid farewel
To all of those who wish'd him well—
And I, the first of whom he ranks—
(For which I could not give him thanks,)
And in such chilling accents spoke,
In such conceited puppy phrase,
That not a single accent broke,
Thro' my closed lips to meet the look
Of cold composure in his gaze.
This served to rouse that southern pride,
Which still sustains tho' all beside
Should fly the heart whose crime was all,
Man's triumph, and its parents fall.
I felt a large drop fill my eye,
Whilst one was gathring in his own,
The dearest gem of sympathy,
My wounded heart had sometime known:
But soon he quell'd the officious friend,
That came a self-wil'd minister;
A drop, that vice could never blend,
With fashion's jest and ribald blur.
Warp'd by the follies of the town,
To affectation, not his own
Still do I hope that he will prove
True to his honor and his love.
To Washington, where he is gone,
I'll fly, and in some safe disguise,
Strive to regain the bird that's flown,
The heart that still, tho' false, I prize.

If I succeed, you soon shall hear,
If not—why not—Your ever dear.