Legislative Epigram [pp. 640]

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
glare of thine eye, whose deadly beams poison the cup
of mirth, while thy frown terrific turns gladness into
sorrow, pleasure into misery.
Ask the pale virgin, why she pines with grief-why
th reose of her cheek, the brightness of her eye, the
lightness of her heart, have all disappeared? Memory
X haunts her, sleeping or awake-the memory of her love,
and her lover, whose voice can never again be heard,
whose manly countenance never again be seen.
Why stops the youth in the full career of pleasure?
The memory of past sorrow appears, and appals him.
The parent weeps incessant tears for some departed
child, and cannot be comforted. The child mourns
through life the loss of that parent, whose place can
never be filled, whose friendly aid, whose kind advice,
whose love, inextinguishable but by death, can never,
never again be experienced.
Age is bent down under the accumulated sorrows of
years, which memory still preserves in all their freshness.
The proud, the ambitious, the great-these perhaps,
escape thy chilling presence, oh Memory! No-these
are thy chosen victims. Thou delightest to torture
them, with thy most refined torments-the recollection
of bright prospects blasted, of glory obscured, of deeds
of guilt-treachery, oppression, injustice, and crime.
Remorse kindles a hell around them. Ah! how they
writhe, and curse thee, Memory, and pray for some
Lethean stream to wash away the impressions thou
hast made. Will no kind hand present a draught of
that dark stream, which brings on the sweet sleep of
oblivion? Remorse, anguish and despair, never leave
their victim until death. Death is his only refuge.
But it is not always thus. Thou art sometimes kind.
Who does not bless thee, Memory, for the remembrance
of the golden days of childhood and youth? when the
morning was fair, without a spot, without a cloud, when the beams of joy and innocence illuniined every
object around us-when music was more sweet, beauty
more lovely, nature more attractive, the world far bet ter than they ever will be again.
Who does not turn oft, oft to the scenes of his first
and dearest love? Years have swept on, in their course,
but I still see, in vivid freshness (' in my mind's eye, Ho ratio,') the dark flowing tresses, the bright black eye,
the ruby cheek, the pearly teeth, the winning smile,
the graceful motion, and faultless form of her I met,
and loved in childhood. Though sadly pleasing, I love
to cherish that image in my memory.
Friends! shall I forget thee, dearer than life, and
the moments of rapturous delight I have spent with
thee? Shall I forget the jest, the laugh, the sparkling
bowl, the song, the flow of soul, and transport of delight, when all borne on the purple wings of wine,
sailed aloft to heaven, and mingled with the stars?
But above all, thy best gift is the recollection of home,
of a father's fireside-where even the cheerful blaze
seems to partake of the joy of the little circle around
it. That little circle whose lame is love, whose interest
the happiness of each, who think, feel, speak, and act
as one. Fit emblem of Heaven! the only image of
Heaven upon earth. But even these scenes of happinessdorrow inrades. When enjoying them, we feel a
keen pang of regret, that they must have an end? and
when enjoyed, that they can never return.
To the Editor of the Messenger.
SIR,-It is the privilege of the occupants of t gal leries, during the session, to wander at will over the
floor, sit at the members' desks, in the speaker's chair,
or any where else they please, after or before the ses sions, of a certain distinguished parliamentary'body.
Availing myself of that privilege, I, a few days ago,
was sauntering along the hall in which those sessions
are held, admiring the splendor of its arrangements
and the magnificent proportions of i-ts structure, when
my eye happened to fall upon a bit of paper, lying on
the floor, upon which seemed to be written something
in the way of poetry.
Having a penchant for rhyming and rhymes, I took
up the paper, and found its contents far too clever to
be lost among the rubbish of a reporter's desk: and,
disclaiming all knowledge of their object, while I would
cordially recommend to tlie notice of your readers their
epigrammatic point and keen wit, I have transcribed
them for the pages of the Messenger.
It would seem that some member of the body had
been attacking the reporters for doing him some injustice in reporting his speech for the press, and thereupon
the epigram, (which I really think worthy of Swift or
Pope,) was thrown off, and then-thrown away.
Yours, sir, truly,
LEGISLATIVE EPIGRA
ho UA:+AW ASH she \ffn ~ ~ ~ * - w..;
THE REPORTER TO THE MEMBER;
AN EPIGRAM,
DEDICATED TO ONE WHO WILL UNDERSTAND IT.
BY STENOGRAPHICUS.
"Neneo me impune lacessit."
We "don't report you!" Pray, what mortal can
Report a thing that's neither maid nor man?
A lady-gentlemnan, made up of sound,
Still ducking, bowing, curtseying, round and round!
Whose feeble rhetoric eternal steals
In polish'd sentence, like twisted eels:
A thing portentous, dread by the house,
Who fly his tongue, like Marlborough from a mouse:
A nuisance in debate, politely rude,
An endless, boundless, tedious, tiresome flood!
Report yourself! You'll please yourself, at least:
'Twill give your vanity a glorious feast!
Pray, don't omit the gestures, conn'd with art,Of all the speech they form the weightiest part!
Consult your glass, (a lady's constant friend!)
And study well the flutter, and the bend!
The chin projected, and the nodding head!
And view, with amorous eyes, a breech'd old maid!
A French Journalist translated. Johnson's "Rambler"
by "Le Chevalier Errant," and when it was corrected
to L'Errant, a foreigner drank Johnson's health very
innocently under the title of Monsieur Vagabond.
640
October 1, 1837.
PHILOSTENO.