Alexandria Advertiser And Commercial Intelligencer

For the Alexandria Advertiser.

DISCONSOLATE WANDERER:

INSCRIBED TO:***

WHAT means the sad plaint on my ear

Did it break from the city or grove

Tis echo, perhaps that brings near;

The sighing of some turtle dove

Oh no! 'tis the semblance of woe,

Beneath yon green willow reclin'd:

'Tis Stella whose murmurs thus flow,

Which are wafted around by the wind

She roves whilst the zephyrs of morn,

Gives sweetness and life to the scene

Whilst clusters of dew drops adorn,

The violet empurpled green;

And when Sol from the West disappears

Again she traverses the plain;

All lonely indulging her tears,

Where the world cannot witness her pain.

I've sought to speak peace to her mind

When gloomy and sad was my own

Ah! why are thy sorrows confin'd,

I said, to thy bosom alone!

If love, that so often beguiles,

The breast that's most gentle or great,

Hath caught thee a prey in his wiles,

O tear his keen dart from thy breast:

To love, when not lov'd in return,

Must sure be a pitiable flame;

O far from my heart I would spurn

The foe that was wasting my frame

If lov'd, which comfort impart,

Ah why! from what source is that sigh

Which made its escape from thy heart,

And why thus to solitude fly?

But oh, if 'tis treachery wounds,

And the foe was most dear to thy soul,

Thy grief will extend to its bounds,

In vain will it prove to console!

But Friendship, dear Stella, is thine,

Not foes who are delighted to harm

Then wisely to Reason incline,

Her voice will thy sorrows disarm

Oh that Peace to her haunts would

Thy heart that so pensive appears;

Or Sympathy knew to procure,

A charm that would rival thy tears

O! let not this gloominess reign

For life is fast fleeting away,

The past we can never regain,

The present entice not to stay

But throw its dark mantle aside,

The footsteps of nature go trace,

For nature is now in her pride,

All glowing, all blooming her face;

The meadows are painted with flow'rs,

The gardens are fill'd with perfume,

The woodbine creeps o'er the bow'rs,

'Tis now in the height of its bloom.

Why tell me, she said, of the Spring,

Of beauties wild nature bestows?

No solace, alas! do they bring,

They seem but to add to my woes!

The heart which is destin'd to mourn,

Will shrink from whatever is gay,

Is pleas'd with the Winter's return,

With the gloom and the shortness of day.

What avails me the zephyr's soft breath?

Tho' the horrors of midnight they brave

Can they pierce the dark chambers of death

And raise my dear friend from the grave

Say! can they Maria restore,

Revive her once elegant form

Ah no! I shall view her no more—

A lily broke down by the storm.

All cold and forsaken she lies,

Deep silence encircles her round

I call her, 'tis echo replies,

'Tis only my groans that rebound.

Last night, she appear'd whilst I slept.

In splendor as radiant as noon,

And tenderly ask'd why I wept,

When I should be with her so soon.

Oh I long for that period to come,

That happy cessation from woe,

When cold and forgot in the tomb,

My sorrows no longer will flow!

But let me not murmur at Heav'n,

The period allotted is nigh;

Perhaps now the mandate is giv'n—

Bid Stella prepare for to die.

But still he continues to grieve,

Continues her sorrowful train,

Tho' now 'tis the twilight of eve,

And darkness creeps o'er the plain;

Tho' the birds to the forests repair,

And the flocks have forsaken the lawn,

Beneath the sad emblem of care,

Droops Stella's disconsolate form.

MIRA.