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.

THE DECLARATION.

The lady sat within her bower,
Where trellissed vines hung o'er her,
With flashing eye and burning cheek,
Down knelt her fond adorer;
He took her soft white hand, and in
Her bright eye fondly gazing,
Sought for a look, to show that he
An equal flame was raising;
Yet still her eyes were turned away,
And as his heart waxed bolder,
And he devoured her lily hand,
The lady's look grew colder.
And then he swore by all the stars,
That in the sky were shining—
By all the verdant vines that o'er
Her gentle bower were twining—
By mountains, valleys, seas and streams,
And by the moon above her,
And everything therein that e'er
Sophi or saints discover—
He never could know peace again
On earth, till he had won her;
Yet still she answered not the look
Of love he cast upon her.
And then he swore, at her command,
To show his love, he would do
What never mortals did before,
And none but lovers could do,
That he would climb up to the moon,
Or swim the ocean over—
Would dine one day at Sandy Hook,
And sup next night at Dover;
Then jump from thence to London, and
Alight on St. Paul's steeple—
Then pull the Premier's nose, and make
O'Connell damn the people.
Or that he would put armour on,
And, like a knight of yore, he
Would fight with giants, castles scale,
And gain immortal glory.
Then go and build a kingdom up,
And be a mighty winner;
Bowstring the Sultan Mahmoud—and
His TURKEY eat for dinner.
Then follow Lander's dismal track,
And on the Niger's banks
An Empire of the Darkies found,
And merit Tappan's thanks!
If HARDER tasks she did demand,
He would reform the nation,
Make talent, honesty, and worth,
Essentials to high station—
Make politicians tell the truth,
Give consciences to brokers,
And put upon the temperance list
An army of old soakers—
Make lawyers "keep the people's peace,"
Physicians kill them CHEAPER—
A cloud was on the lady's brow,
Which, as he spoke, grew deeper.
He swore she had the brightest eyes,
That ever look'd on mortal;
And that their light was like the rays
That stream from Heaven's own portal;
That by her cheek, the opening rose
Would look but dim and faded;
And darker than the raven's wing,
The hair her fair brow shaded;
That Venus by her side would look
A common country dowdy;—
The lady blushed and smiled, and then
Her brow again grew cloudy.
Up sprung the lover then, and said,
"Will you be Mrs. Popkins—
Miss Julia Jane Amelia Ann
Matilda Polly Hopkins?
I have a house four stories high—
We'll live in splendid style, and
A handsome countryseat upon
Lake George's sweetest island—
Ten thousand eagles in the mint,
Bankshares, untold, percented"—
The lady bent her cheek to his,
Her gentle heart relented!