Onward, in cold and gloomy grandeur, advance the frowning heralds of the despot winter! Every vestige of vernal beauty has faded from their presence. The mountains, vales and rivulets, as if anticipating his hateful arrival, have veiled themselves in a frigid, chilling vesture of white! Even the tears which sympathising heaven sheds upon the bosom of the earth, become congealed and frozen beneath his blighting influence. The volcanic fires which rage in the bosom of the towering mountain cower in dismay from his terrific glance. At length the tyrant, with his iron sceptre and icy crown, is seated on his throne. His attendant ministers rush to assist in the frightful coronation, and amid the demoniac yells which announce the termination of the loathsome ceremony, the harsh old Boreas shrieks forth the requiem of the departed year! V. For the Southern Literary Messenger. BYRON'S LAST WORDS. BY D. MARTIN. Summer was in its glory. Night came down, With a light step upon the virent earth; Sepulchral silence reigned on every side; And the winds--those heralders of storm Which curl the billows on Old Ocean's brow, In their low breathings were inaudible,-- When a gifted son of Genius sought his home, And threw himself upon a lowly couch, And as his being's star went slowly down, He thus communed in low and faltering tone:-- Oh! it is hard to die! To leave this world of amaranthine green, Whose glittering pageantry and flowery sheen, Vie with the glorious sky! But alas! the hand of Death, Has laid its icy grasp upon me now; The cold sweat rests upon my feverish brow, And shorter grows my breath! Well be it so! And I will pass away like light at even, Unto the Houri's amethystine heaven, Where all immortal go! Yet I have drank Unto its very dregs, the cup of Fame, And won myself a green, undying name, In Glory's rank! And yet!--oh, yet, "Break but one seal for me unbroken! Speak but one word for me unspoken! Before my sun is set!" Oh, for one drop Of the black waters of that stream sublime, Which follows in the stormy track of Time, This breath to stop! It may not be! Yet I would pray that Memory might rest, Like the wan beauty of the sunlit west, In dark oblivion's sea! Thus did he commune--and when the god of day Rose like a monarch from his sapphire throne, His spirit had passed away like morning mist-- And winged its way unto that far off land, Where burns fore'er eternity's bright star! For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO A YOUNG LADY.