The great transition who can tell? When from the ear its seal shall part Where countless lyres seraphic swell, And holy transport thrills the heart. When the chain'd tongue, which ne'er might pour The broken melodies of time, Shall to the highest numbers soar, Of everlasting praise sublime, When those blind orbs which ne'er might trace The features of their kindred clay, Shall scan of Deity the face, And glow with rapture's deathless ray. L. H. S. For the Southern Literary Messenger. AN ELEGY Sacred to the memory of the infant children of S. M. and C. W. S. of Campbell county, Va. By Frederic Speece. O, they were rose-buds, fresh and bright, Fair flow'rets breathing of delight; Young cherubs from a happier sphere, Too gently sweet to linger here. The rose-buds withered ere their bloom, The flow'rets strewed an early tomb, The gentle cherubs tasted pain, Then sought their native skies again. Infants are bright immortal things Though robed in feeble, dying clay: Death but unfolds their silken wings, And speeds their joyful flight away; Beyond these cold, sublunar skies, They seek a home among the blest; On strong unwearied pinions rise, Cleave the blue vault and are at rest. What though no marble may attest Where slumber lone their cold remains, Their little cares are hushed to rest, And terminated all their pains. Nor Fame may deign a feeble blast, To tell the world that _they have been_; Nor snatch the record of the past From the dark grave that locks it in. Barren the theme--the legend trite Of joys or griefs it could reveal-- The interchange of shade and light That all _have_ felt and all _must_ feel. Though grief has lost its keener edge, Remembrance lingers where they lie, To muse on ev'ry precious pledge The loved ones left beneath the sky. And ere oblivion's ebon wing Sweep ev'ry vestige from the spot, Affection shall its off'rings bring, Nor leave them to be quite forgot. Each lovely flow'r and drooping bell-- Bright daughters of the op'ning year,-- Those beauteous things they loved so well Shall weep their annual tribute here. Through dreary Winter's storm and cold, These sleep from all his terrors free-- Again their blooming sweets unfold, Emblem of all that they shall be. For the Southern Literary Messenger. SONNET. BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD. Sunset is past,--and now while all is still, And softly o'er the plain the moonbeams fall, I'll hold communion with myself and call From mem'ry's caverns, feelings deep, that fill My soul with gladness.... Now I feel the thrill Of past delights;--I stand in that old hall, My friends surround me,--yes, I see them all:-- My heart grows faint, my eyes with tear-drops fill.