On the brow of the mountain The grey mists darkle-- On the wave of the fountain Star images sparkle-- Wild lights o'er the meadow Are fitfully gleaming-- In the hill's dark shadow A spirit is dreaming. The birds and the flowers With closed eyes are sleeping, All hushed are the bowers Where glow-worms are creeping-- There's quiet in heaven, There's peace to the billow-- A blessing seems given To all--save my pillow. Alas! do I wonder I too cannot sleep, Like the calm waves yonder, And dream all as deep?-- There's beauty beside me, A love-heaving breast-- Ah! my very joys chide me, And rob me of rest. For the Southern Literary Messenger. LINES ON FINDING A BILLET FROM AN EARLY FRIEND AMONG SOME OLD PAPERS. I gaze on this discolored sheet Which time has tinged with many a stain, And sigh to think his course should bring To nought, that friendship nursed in vain. Here in your well known hand I see My name, with terms endearing traced, And vows of firm fidelity, Which other objects soon effaced. Strange does it seem, that in these words A dead affection I should find, As if some early buried friend Resumed his place among his kind. Yes--after many a chilling year Of coldness and of alter'd feeling, This tatter'd messenger is here, Worlds of forgotten thought revealing. As once my faith was purely thine, For thee my blood I would have pour'd As freely as the rich red wine We pledged around the jovial board. It seem'd that thou wert thus to me, Loyal and true as thou didst swear: I knew not then, as now I know, That oaths are but impassion'd air. And even now, a doubt that they Were falsehoods all, will cross my brain: That thought alone I seek to quell, That thought alone could give me pain. To be forgotten has no sting-- For friendships every day grow cold; But 'tis a wounding thought, that I Have purchased dross, and paid in gold. Tho' thou hast changed, as worldlings change Amid the haunts of sordid men, I cannot bid my feelings range-- But cling to what I deem'd thee _then_. S. For the Southern Literary Messenger. THE CEMETERY.--_From the Russian_. FIRST VOICE. How sad, how frightful the abode, How dread the silence of the tomb! There all surrounding objects speak The haunt of terror and of gloom-- And nought but tempests' horrid howl we hear, And bones together rattling on the bier! SECOND VOICE. How peaceful, tranquil is the tomb! How calm, how deep is its repose! There flow'rets wild more sweetly bloom, There zephyr's breath more softly flows; And there the nightingale and turtle-dove Their notes pour forth of happiness and love. FIRST VOICE.