1 D. Y. Brown's Superstitions of the Canary Islands.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE HEART.
| Man's heart! what melancholy things Are garner'd up in thee!— What solace unto life it brings That none the heart can see— 'Tis shut from every human eye, Close curtain'd from the view; The scene alike of grief or joy— Man's Hell and Heaven too. Should all mankind combine to tear The curtain, thrown around, Their labor would be spent in air— It is his hallow'd ground: Within thy magic circle, Heart! So potent is his spell, No human hand hath strength to part Or turn aside the veil. In sadness, there's a pleasure soft, "Which mourners only know;" My heart affords this treasure oft, And there I love to go; It is the chosen spot where I Can live my life anew— My Home!—my Castle!—my Serai! Which none must dare break through. In thee, my Heart! I am alone Quite unrestrained and free, Thou'rt hung with pictures all my own, And drawn for none but me; All that in secret passes there, Forever I can hide; Ambition—love—or dark despair— My jealousy—or pride. Yes, when ambitious—ardent—young— I thought the world my own, My glowing portraits there were hung; How have their colors flown!— Some are by Time, defaced so far I look on them with pain; But Time nor nothing else can mar The portrait of my JANE. I placed her there who won my soul; No creature saw the maid; I gazed in bliss, without control, On every charm displayed: It was a sweet, impassion'd hour, When not an eye was near To steal into my lonely bower, And kiss her image there. Earth held not on its globe the man Who breathed that holy air; No mortal eye but mine did scan My folly with my fair; Sole monarch of that silent spot, All things gave place to me; I did but wish—no matter what— Each obstacle would flee. And did she love? She loved me not, But gave her hand away; I hied me to my lonely spot— In anguish passed the day; And such a desolation wide, Spread o'er that holy place, The stream of life itself seemed dried, Or ebbing out apace. But what I did—what madly said— I cannot tell to any— Her portrait in its place hath staid, Though years have flown so many; Nor can each lovely lineament So deep impress'd, depart, Till Nature shall herself be spent, And thou shalt break, MY HEART. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MR. WHITE,—I send you a Parody upon Bryant's Autumn, apparently written by some disconsolate citizen of Richmond after the adjournment of the Legislature in time past. If the picture be faithfully drawn, it may perhaps amuse the members of the assembly who are now in your city.