I'm standing at thy couch Estelle—
Thy hand in mine—awake my love!—
O'er silent lake and leafy dell
Calm eve is sinking from above;
Wilt thou not look upon the scene
Which from yon casement woos thine eyes?
The light shines beauteously between
The far off mountains where its last blush dies.
I kiss thee sweet—how cold thy lip!—
How pale thy cheek!—thy brow how white!—
And chill as unsunned flowers that dip
Their colorless leaves in dews of night.
In vain—in vain I call on thee—
Thou answerest not that once loved call—
Thou hast no word—no look for me—
How heavily from mine thy hand doth fall!
Yet dearest, while I gaze on thee,
Whom I have loved so long—so well—
It seems not all reality
That I have lost thee quite, Estelle.
I have a sense, though vague and dim,
Of something which my heart hath stilled—
The formless shadow of a dream
That with oppressive thoughts my mind hath filled.
The mist is fading—yet so fair!
Can this be death?—this, beauteous sleep!—
Yes!—Yes!—and they will lay thee where
The earth is damp and worms do creep—
Oh! God!—that reptiles—horrid thought!—
Must banquet on those lovely limbs,
Whose faultless outline, seemeth not
Traced for this world of dark and sullen dreams.
It must be so—the grave—the grave
Relentless swallows all we love,—
Mind—Beauty—Virtue—naught can save—
And yet there is a God above!—
I only know—I only feel
Thou'rt doomed to be the earthworm's prey,
The newt will o'er thy bosom steal,
And loathsome things through thy rich tresses stray.
* * * * *
* * * * *
I hear the sound of many feet—
A moment more, they will be here—
One kiss—one more.—Farewell my sweet,
Let others weep around thy bier,
Who loved thee well—yet loved thee less—
I cannot weep—the fount is dry
In sorrow's utter wilderness—
And with a tearless voiceless thought I die.1

1 But as it is, I live and die unheard,
With a most voiceless thought sheathing it as a sword.
[Childe Harold, Canto III. Stanza xcvii.
Not a plagiarism but a coincidence; a softer term, and more in vogue.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

——through the vigils of the joyless day and the broken dreams of the night, there was a charm upon his soul—a hell within himself; and the curse of his sentence was never to forget.—Falkland.

There is a thought that still obtrudes in lone and festive hours;
It falls upon my withered heart like desert winds on flowers:
Oh! read it in my altered brow and in my sunken eye,
I cannot speak it, for the words upon my lips would die.
At evening when I muse alone and calmer visions rise,
Such as will sometimes swim before the veriest wretch's eyes,
That thought will start up suddenly, like spectre from the graves,
And rend the fragile web of joys poor Fancy idly weaves.
In scenes of mirth and revelry I mingle—'tis in vain—
My spirit finds no Lethe in the cup I madly drain;
And when I strive to laugh, like those whose hearts are light and free—
What ghastly echo of their mirth!—what bitter mockery!
Alas! the silver chord is loosed—the golden bowl is broken;
Remembrance strews my blighted path with many a bitter token;
And on my heart a fearful sign is set forever more—
A burning seal like that they say the wandering Hebrew bore.