| There is a form before me now, A spirit with a peerless brow, And locks of gold that lightly lie, Like clouds on the air of a sunset sky, And a glittering eye, whose beauty blends With more than mortal tenderness, As bright a ray as Heaven sends To light those orbs, where the pure and blest Are taking their eternal rest. Sweet Spirit! thou hast stolen afar From thy home in yonder crystal Star, That I might look on thee, and bless Thy kindness and thy loveliness. How oft against these prison bars I have leaned my head, and gazed for hours Upon the wonder-telling stars; Thinking, if in their sinless bowers The memory of this planet dim E'er mingles with thy blissful dream. And when low winds were stealing by, I have sometimes closed my weary eye; And fancied the sigh that was silently stealing Through my damp hair, was thine own breathing: Then would I lay me down upon This carpetless cold flinty stone, And pray—how long! how fervently! To look on thee once more and die. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MOONLIGHT.
| The half-orbed Moon hangs out her silvery lamp, A liquid lustre pouring o'er the scene; While silk-winged zephyrs bathed in dewy damp Scarce move the pensile leaves, or break the calm serene. Radiant she rests upon the brow of night, The lucid diadem that crowns the sky; So softly beautiful, so mildly bright, She sways the ravished heart, and feeds the insatiate eye. In jocund boyhood erst her magic face Impressed no feeling but a gentle joy; For moonlit memory knew not then to trace The saddened scenes of youth that later hopes alloy. When dawning manhood, fired by fancy's ray, Enrobed all nature in her rainbow hues, Then fond affection loved at eve to stray And, gazing on the Moon, with thrilling heart to muse. But when advancing years have broke the ties Formed at the altar of the Moonlit Heaven, The thoughts of buried joys in sadness rise, And tear-drops glisten in the silent light of even. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.