Chapter XCVI: Act I: Scene 2. New York, towards the end of the summer of 1780 (27)

"That maiden, she of the lovely face,
Who holds in thy heart _my_ wretched place,
Shall become thy bride, and her first born son
Be a monster, hideous to gaze upon!
And the sight of the thing shall drive her mad! {764}
And while she's screaming in accents wild,
She shall call upon thee in tones most sad,
Thyself to murder her hideous child!
Oh, she shall shriek in her wild despair,
And her phrensied eye, with a fearful glare,
Full on thy faithless face shall gleam--
And with lips of foam and teeth close set,
Her voice full in thy ear shall scream,
'Remember the curse of _thy Martinette!_'
And with fingers of blood she shall rend her cheek--
And those lips which now in their freshness part,
Shall utter as wild and terrific a shriek
As ever yet burst from my broken heart;
And her every shriek and her every groan
Shall wither thy heart, thou faithless one!
And thus she shall die, ere reason's dawn
The veil from her wildered soul hath drawn.
But her blasted babe, that hideous thing,
Shall live--and its frightful presence shall bring
Galling thoughts, which shall have the power
To blast thy every peaceful hour!
By its blasted form thou shalt never forget
The dying curse of _thy Martinette!_"

She spoke, and sunk back on her dying bed,
And the blood gushed forth from her lips of foam!
They raised her again--but the spirit had fled
Away, away to its secret home!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO MRS. B. G. S.

When Summer sheds her soft perfume
The bowers among--
When all the earth is rich in bloom,
The sky in song--
When evening's golden clouds like shadows flee,
Turn for an instant then your thoughts on me.

When Winter in her frozen zone
Robs earth of green--
When only Friendship can atone
For what has been--
When round the hearth your other friends you see,
It is the hour I love--think then of me.

In days of bliss when hope is nigh,
And life is dear,
Your heart with joy elate beats high,
And friends are near--
Forget not there is one will ever be
Glad of thy gladness; cast a thought on me.

And when the darksome days
Of age or ill
The bright and cheering rays
Of hope shall chill,
Think there is one whose love can never be
Changed with Time's changes--oh remember me.

E. A. S.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SEA BIRD'S REVEL.

BY GILES McQUIGGIN.

Look out upon the ocean wave--
Look from the lonely shore;
See how the mountain billows rave,
Hark how the waters roar!

Darkly hangs the tempest cloud,
From windward to the lee;
The thunder mutters hoarse and loud
Above the foaming sea.

'Tis nature in her revel hour--
She sweeps a stormy wing;
Old Ocean trembles at her power,
As wild his surges fling.

The sea bird rides upon her wrath,
Rocks on the tempest's ire--
Surveys the lurid lightning's path,
And shouts amid its fire.

The proud bird breasts the storm alone,
Mounts through its misty height--
The summit is his lofty throne,
The thunder his delight.

While gazing on the horrors round,
His burning eye-balls glare;
King of the storm, with lightnings crown'd,
He fears no terrors there.

When he for very gladness shrieks,
It deafens ocean's roar--
O'er nature in her wildest freaks
The proud storm king may soar.

Ride on aerial charioteer,
The tempest hails thy form;
Thou lov'st a sky forever clear,
Go seek it through the storm.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

I MET THEE BY MOONLIGHT ALONE.

BY M. S. LOVETT.

_Air_--"Oh! meet me by moonlight alone."

I met thee by moonlight alone,
The blue sky was cloudless above;
And dew-gems around us were thrown,
To gladden our meeting of love.

I met thee by moonlight alone,
My heart trusting wholly to thee:
Was it prudent? Alas! I will own
That I asked not, for _thou_ wast with me.

How buoyant my heart, and how sweet
The zephyrs that waved through my hair!
Low murmured the stream at my feet,
Its tale to the summer-night air.

But ah! did the sky cease to smile?
The Moon--were her silver rays gone?
Did _each_ beauty but tarry the while
We met--love, by moonlight alone?

Oh no, for the sky is still bright,
The dew-drops still nightly have shone:
On _me_ fell the darkness and blight:
I met thee by moonlight alone!

And the pale Moon while wand'ring above,
Oft hears its sad votaries own,
That too often the Altar of Love
Is lighted by moonlight alone.

{765}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.