Literary Cadet, And Saturday Evening Bulletin

POETRY.

We have much satisfaction in presenting to our readers the annexed effusion from the pen of A. W. Bolles, Esq. a gentleman who has emitted some of the purest productions, that have of late graced the columns of American newspapers.

We hope to have the pleasure of hearing from him often, and we assure him that the classical productions of "Bion," will ever be gladly received.

FOR THE LITERARY CADET.

TO SOPHIA.

We met the guileless tints of joy
Upon thy lips were glowing,
And o'er thy cheek, the dawn of love
Its own rose hues was throwing--

So darkly pure that eye of light,
I deemed it of some happier sphere,--
Oh, could a thing so blest and bright
Be doomed to dwell with mortals here.

So calm and beautiful!--its beams
Flash'd with a seraph's gladness;
It seemed as if thy spirit knew
No strain of earthly sadness,--

Thy form, a shrine of light, ne'er given
To aught but fairy shapes of air:
The crime were blotted out in heav'n,
If I had knelt to worship there!

We parted--not one smile the less
Threw its enchantment o'er thee;
But still the harbinger of bliss,
Pale sorrow fled before thee--

And if a shade were on thy brow,
'Twas but thy clustering hair
O'erarch'd--it beams as brightly now,
No pensive trace is lingering there.

Farewell--farewell!--Be ever thus
Thy promise of the morrow:
Thine be the day-spring of the heart
Without its night of sorrow,--

Pure and beautiful things like thee
Are for thoughts as pure--no earthly shrine
For burning sighs--thou couldst not be
More lov'd tho' fate had made thee mine.

BION.