For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SERENADE.

Sweet lady, awake from thy downy pillow!
Moonlight is gleaming all bright on yon billow,
Night-flowers are blooming,—south winds are blowing
So gently, they stir not the smooth waters flowing.
Wake lady! wake from thy gentle slumber,
Heav'n's gems are all sparkling, uncounted in number,
How calm, yet how brilliant those beautiful skies,
Which the wave glances back like the beam of thine eyes.
Wake, dearest! wake thou, my heart's fond desire!
All trembling these fingers sweep over the lyre,
This bosom is heaving with love's tender throes,
And my song, like the swan's last, is wild at the close.
Yet thou wilt not list to me,—then lady, farewell!
My lyre shall be hush'd with this last mournful swell;
All lonely and desolate,—onward I roam;
My bosom is void!—the wide world is my home!
M'C.

It is with much pleasure that the publisher is enabled to present in the first number of the "Messenger" the following poetical contributions, not heretofore published, from the pen of Mrs. Sigourney, of Hartford, Connecticut. There are few literary readers on either side of the Potomac, who are not familiar with some of the productions at least, of this accomplished authoress. The purity of her sentiments, and the strength and mellowness of her versification, will remind the reader of the highly gifted and almost unrivalled Hemans.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

COLUMBUS BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY OF SALAMANCA.

"Columbus found, that in advocating the spherical figure of the earth, he was in danger or being convicted not merely of error,—but even of heterodoxy."—Washington Irving.

St. Stephen's cloister'd hall was proud
In learning's pomp that day;
For there, a rob'd and stately crowd
Press'd on, in long array.
A mariner, with simple chart
Confronts that conclave high,
While strong ambition stirs his heart,
And burning thoughts, in wonder part
From lip and sparkling eye.
What hath he said?—With frowning face,
In whisper'd tones they speak,
And lines upon their tablets trace,
That flush each ashen cheek:
The Inquisition's mystic doom
Sits on their brows severe,
And bursting forth in vision'd gloom,
Sad heresy from burning tomb,
Groans on the startled ear.
Courage, thou Genoese!—Old Time
Thy brilliant dream shall crown;
Yon western hemisphere sublime,
Where unshorn forests frown,
The awful Andes' cloud-wrapp'd brow,
The Indian hunter's bow,
Bold streams untam'd by helm or prow,
And rocks of gold and diamond, thou
To thankless Spain shalt show.
Courage, world-finder!—Thou hast need!—
In fate's unfolding scroll,
Dark woes, and ingrate-wrongs I read,
That rack the noble soul.
On!—On!—Creation's secrets probe,
Then drink thy cup of scorn,
And wrapp'd in fallen Cesar's robe,
Sleep, like that master of the globe,
All glorious,—yet forlorn.
L. H. S.