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.

NUGATOR.

PARODY ON BRYANT'S AUTUMN.

The very dullest days are come, the dullest of the year,
When all our great Assembly men are gone away from here;
Heaped up in yonder Capitol, how many bills lie dead,
They just allowed to live awhile, to knock them on the head;
Tom, Dick, and Harry all have gone and left the silent hall,
And on the now deserted square we meet no one at all—
Where are the fellows? the fine young fellows that were so lately here
And vexed the drowsy ear of night with frolic and good cheer.
Alas! they all are at their homes—the glorious race of fellows,
And some perhaps are gone to forge, and some are at the bellows.
Old Time is passing where they are, but Time will pass in vain;
All never can, though some may be, transported here again:
Old "What d'ye call him," he's been off a week, or maybe more,
And took a little negro up, behind and one before;
But What's his name and You know who, they lingered to the last,
And neither had a dollar left and seemed to be downcast;
Bad luck had fallen on them as falls the plague on men,
And their phizzes were as blank as if they'd never smile again;
And then when comes December next, as surely it will come,
To call the future delegate from out his distant home,
When the sound of cracking nuts is heard in lobby and in hall,
And glimmer in the smoky light old Shockoe Hill and all,
An old friend searches for the fellows he knew the year before,
And sighs to find them on the Hill Capitoline, no more;
But then he thinks of one who her promise had belied,
The beautiful Virginia, who had fallen in her pride.
In that great house 'twas said she fell where stands her gallant chief,
Who well might weep in marble, that her race had been so brief—
Yet not unmeet it was he thought—oh no, ye heavenly powers!
Since she trusted those good fellows, who kept such shocking hours.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Audire magnos jam videor duces
Non indecoro pulvere sordidos.—Hor. Car. L. ii. 1.