There is a splendour in these southern skies, Ofttimes at sunset, which I've nowhere seen, Wide as my range about the world hath been, Save on Italian shores; and there the dyes Have less of magic in them!--Who that tries, (Artist or Bard,) to paint such glowing hues As, in the west, mine eye this moment views, But must confess how passing far it lies Beyond his utmost skill?--High o'er my head A blue intense fades into purplish gray; And this anon to richer tints gives way, Of yellow--orange--then of deepening red, Until at length, in his all gorgeous bed, Proudly sinks down the monarch of our day. * * * ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES. POEMS BY A COLLEGIAN, Charlottesville, Va. Published by C. P. McKennie. Printed by D. Deans & Co. 1833. A neat and unpretending volume of poems, with the above title, was issued last year from the Charlottesville press. As a Virginia production _altogether_, and the first fruits of poetical genius, emanating from the University of Virginia, the collection deserves honorable mention in the pages of the Southern Literary Messenger. Criticism might be disarmed of some of its wonted severity, when it is known that all the poems contained in this volume, were written by the author between the ages of sixteen and nineteen. This fact, however, only increases our favorable opinion of his talents, and induces us to estimate still higher his natural powers of mind. We propose, instead of an analysis of the volume before us, and a regular review of its contents, to extract specimens of the POETRY, which struck us as displaying that fire of genius so necessary to constitute a true POET. Our readers we are sure will agree with us in the favorable opinion we have expressed, after they have perused these specimens. One of the best and most spirited of the poems, is the Address to Constantinople on its anticipated fall, written on receiving intelligence that the Russian army was on its march to that capital in 1829. We give the two first stanzas. "Thy plumes are ruffled now, proud bird! O'er land and ocean, forest, solitude, The echo of thy last, sad shriek is heard!-- The glance of majesty Is quailing now from thy fierce eye, And the deep wailing of thy scattered brood Is dying to a murmur. Sadly dark Is thy soiled plumage, and thy gilded crest Has fallen--so often fall the loftiest and the best. Hark! To the tread of the devouring foe!-- But ere thou art laid low, Shall not one last avenging blow Be struck? Rouse thee, proud bird! Thy voice of triumph 'mid the nations, yet May swell from mosque and minaret-- May with the bravest and the first be heard!