How softly sweet this zephyr night!
To Venus sends her brilliant light!
And Heav'n's inhabitants unite
Each kindly beam,
To put fell darkness' train to flight,
With gentle gleam.
The vessel's sides the waters wake,
And waveless as the bounded lake,
A solemn slumber seem to take
Extending wide;—
Along the ship they sparkling break
And gem the tide.
Midst such a scene, no thoughts can find
An entrance in the pensive mind,
But such as virtue has refined,
The past must smile—
And flatt'ring fancy will be kind,
And hope beguile.
Blest silence! solitary friend—
My thoughts with thee to home I send;
And there absorbed my sorrows end—
In vain I roam—
As blossoms to the day-star tend,
So I to home.
Not more I owe that glorious ray
That beams the blessing of the day;
Not more my gratitude I pay
For air and light—
Than for that Home now far away—
First, best delight.
A little while, and that blest spot,
From mem'ry shall raze each blot,
And all my wand'rings there forgot,
At last I'll rest—
No sorrow shall disturb the cot
So loved, so blest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AUTUMN WOODS.

A deep ton'd requiem's in the sigh
Of the moaning blast, as it hurries by
Yon fading forest;
Upon its rushing wings is borne
A voice sad as the anthem's tone
Above the dead:
It is the wild wind's hymn of death,
Which pours in plaintive strains its breath
O'er autumn woods;
When hurl'd to earth by the fitful storm,
Some frail leaf's wan and wither'd form
Sinks to its tomb.
Sad relics of the dying year;
Thy springtide glories now are sear,
And all departed:
Where now's thy fairy robe of spring,
The sunbeam and the zephyr's wing
Once wove for thee?
Say, where's that gush of melody
Thy sylvan minstrels pour'd for thee
In thy summer bowers?
Or where's the Æolian song thou wouldst wake
When some sporting zephyr's breath would shake
Thy rustling leaves?
Thy robe—thy song have past away,
And the funeral pall and the funeral lay
Alone are thine!
How oft when summer's azure sky
Was bath'd in the golden, gorgeous dye
Of sunset's glow,
I've lov'd to wander through thy bright
And verdant bowers, gilt with light
Of parting day;
To list to the soft, faint melody
Of thy vesper hymn, as it floated by
On the passing breeze—
Or view, when on the stream's bright sheen
Was pictured all thy fairy scene
In mimic art;—
How calm that stream, in its slumber seeming,
Of thee and all thy pageant dreaming
Reflected there.
But thro' thy shades 'twas not alone
I stray'd. With me there wander'd one
Of gentler mould,
Around whose seraph form awakening,
Young beauty's morning light was breaking
In roseate beam—
And round whose stainless brow fond Love,
And Hope and Joy a wreath had wove
Of freshest bloom.
Thou sad memento of the tomb!
Say, shall that wreath, with its sunny bloom,
E'er fade like thee?
Shall Time's chill mildew on it light,
Or sorrow breathe its autumn blight
Upon its flowers?
A voice is in each falling leaf
Which says, "earth's brightest joys are brief"—
Thus fade its hopes!
Then mid that wreath of fading flowers
Fond pleasure weaves, to deck her bowers,
Oh! twine that flower
Whose fadeless hue, whose springtide bloom
Immortal lives, beyond the tomb—
Bright SHARON'S ROSE.

H.

We extract the following sprightly effusion from the North American Magazine, published in Philadelphia. It bears a strong resemblance to the grace and freedom, and piquancy which distinguish the muse of Halleck, one of the most highly gifted poets in America. We hope our fair readers, however, will not suppose that the author's satire is adapted to our meridian. The BEAUTIES of our southern clime, are too generous and disinterested to be won by the sordid allurements of splendid edifices, bank shares and gold eagles!—at least we hope so, and should be sorry to find ourselves mistaken.