S.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE CEMETERY.—From the Russian.
| FIRST VOICE. |
| How sad, how frightful the abode, How dread the silence of the tomb! There all surrounding objects speak The haunt of terror and of gloom— And nought but tempests' horrid howl we hear, And bones together rattling on the bier! |
| SECOND VOICE. |
| How peaceful, tranquil is the tomb! How calm, how deep is its repose! There flow'rets wild more sweetly bloom, There zephyr's breath more softly flows; And there the nightingale and turtle-dove Their notes pour forth of happiness and love. |
| FIRST VOICE. |
| Against that dark sepulchral mound, Funereal crows their pinions beat; There dens of ravenous wolves are found, And there the vulture's foul retreat; The earth around with greedy claws they tear, Whilst serpents hiss and poison all the air. |
| SECOND VOICE. |
| There, when the shades of evening fall, The sportive hares their gambols keep; Or, fearless of the huntsman's call, Upon the verdant herbage sleep; While midst the foliage of the o'erhanging boughs The feathered tribe in slumbers soft repose. |
| FIRST VOICE. |
| Around that dank and humid spot A noisome vapor ever clings, Exhaled from heaps which there to rot Death with untiring labor brings; Devoid of leaves the trees their branches spread, And every plant seems withering, or dead. |
| SECOND VOICE. |
| In what soft accents whispers there The evening breeze about the tomb, Diffusing through the balmy air Of countless flowers the rich perfume, And speaking of a place of peace and rest, Where e'er mid breathing fragrance dwell the blessed! |
| FIRST VOICE. |
| When to this dismal vale of tears, The pilgrim comes with weary pace, O'erpowered by appalling fears, In vain his steps he would retrace; Urged onwards by a hand unseen, unknown, He's headlong in the wreck-strewed torrent thrown. |
| SECOND VOICE. |
| Worn out by life's sad pilgrimage, Man here at length his staff lays down— Here feels no more the tempest's rage, Nor dreads the heav'ns impending frown— Reposes from his toil in slumbers deep, And sleeps of ages the eternal sleep! |
EDITORIAL REMARKS.
We flatter ourselves that our patrons will not be displeased with the feast which we have set before them in the present number of the Messenger. We have not commenced with the egg and ended with the apple, (ab ovo usque ad malum,) according to the ancient custom; nor placed the substantials before the dessert, as in modern entertainments; but have rather chosen to mingle them without order or arrangement,—that our guests may partake as their respective tastes and inclinations may dictate. The scientific reader will be attracted by the communications of Dr. POWELL, and PETER A. BROWNE, Esq. of Philadelphia. By the former gentleman, who is now actively engaged in geological and antiquarian researches in the western country, we are kindly promised occasional aid; and, to the latter distinguished individual, we owe our thanks for the warm interest he has evinced in our infant enterprize.