A MANIAC'S ADDRESS TO THE MOON. Thou pale!--thou beautiful!--to thee I kneel, Watching thy wandering thro' yon dark blue sky In silent gaze--as if my heart could feel Deep adoration for thee, and was nigh To a bright being that had look'd on me Ev'n from the first days of my infancy. Is it not so? Near to those yellow shores Where roll my native streams, oh! hast thou not Seen my young pleasures, when our busy oars O'er the cool wave at dusky night would sport On that bright pathway where thy silvery beam Fell beautiful upon the glossy stream. When thou didst rise at evening's twilight hour, A mighty crescent o'er the broken tower, Then would I wander 'neath the crumbling wall, Or chase my playmates thro' the ruined hall, Nor fearing any Spectre-Knight would play His frightful gambols in thy harmless ray. Away--away!--and when we there did sweep The deep black billows of the roaring ocean, Still high amid the heavens thou didst keep Steady and bright; and with a wild emotion Guiarra trembling did look up to thee To guide him safely o'er that dismal sea, And kindly light his weary hands to spread The rattling canvass o'er his giddy head. These skies are foreign, and I tread the ground My fathers saw not: yet while thou art flinging Upon the hills, the woods, the vales around Thy gentle beam, ev'n though my heart be clinging To other lands, still it can hold most dear This stranger home since it can meet thee here. We'll climb yon hill--we'll wander o'er yon plain-- We'll skim yon lake: Moon! we will roam together Till mother earth call home her child again: Then part we!--part we! fair Moon!--aye, for ever! 'Tis not for a bright thing like thee to glow In the deep shades where the departed go. Yet thou canst look upon the road that leads To my far dwelling place: there will be flowers And fresh green blades, and moss, and harmless weeds To point the passage. Oh! at midnight hours Wilt thou not smile upon those things that bloom All wild, all heedlessly above my tomb? I sit, and weave beneath thy gentle light A wreath of cypress and of roses bright, And ere it wither, or its glow be fled, I'll gaily bind it round my dying head. 'Twill still the throbbing of my fever'd brow To wear those flowers pluck'd from the tender stem Where they were springing beautiful--and thou As beautiful wast shining above _them_. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO AN INFANT NEPHEW IN ENGLAND. By the late Mrs. ANN ROY, of Mathews county, Virginia. Tho' Ocean's _pride_ be thy home, my boy, I have heard thy laugh of infant joy; Tho' Albion's breezes fan thy rest, I have seen thee smile on thy mother's breast. Like the forms that float in the summer heaven, Fair Fancy's dreams have often given Thy cherub beauty to my sight Than those fairy tints more soft, more bright.