Se tutti gli alberi del mondo
Fossero penne—
Il cielo fosse carta,
Il mare, inchiostro—
Non basterebbero a descrivere
La minima parte della vostra perfexione!
AN ATTEMPT AT TRANSLATION.
Could we the sky's unbounded range,
To paper all convert—
And had we power, miraculous, to change,
To pens, the trees,
To ink, the seas—
These would not all suffice to paint, in part,
The rich perfections of thy mind and heart—
Thy graces—thy desert!

ELLA.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

WHERE IS MY HEART?

BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD.

Where is my heart?
Its place of rest is not within this aching breast;—
Where does it dwell?
It is not in the glittering hall,
Where sunbright glances gaily fall
'Neath pleasure's spell.
Where is my heart?
Not in the crowd 'mid mirth and wine and revel loud;—
It is not there.
Nor is it where the summer's sky
Gives birth to flowers of brightest dye
And balmy air.
Where is my heart?
Upon the sea, where dwell the joyous and the free,
It has not gone.
My withered heart, it has not flown
Where love or hope or joy is known,
Or pleasures dawn.
Where is my heart?
To the cold grave, where yew and cypress darkly wave,
My heart has fled.
Yes, where the form it worshipped sleeps,
My blighted heart its vigil keeps,
Beside the dead.