Smiles sweetly from her altitude in heaven. The red man and the white, together sleep That dreamless slumber, and the waves' hoarse sweep Awakes them not--and I a wandering boy, Will not with my sad song their manes annoy. I drop a parting tear, thou sacred pile, To thy strewn columns and thy moss grown aisle; Thy broken pavement, and thy ruined arch,-- How rapid Time, thy desolating march! Farewell! farewell! thou sacred, solemn spot; What I have felt shall not be soon forgot: Rest, rest, ye slumberers! would that I could sleep; Your's is all calm, but _I_ must live to weep. SYLVANUS. _August, 1834_. [Footnote 1: It is said of West, the celebrated painter, that on being shown an Apollo, he exclaimed, "My God, how much like a young _Mohawk warrior_."] [Footnote 2: Indian term for a great man.] For the Southern Literary Messenger. ODE WRITTEN ON A FINE NIGHT AT SEA. How softly sweet this zephyr night! To Venus sends her brilliant light! And Heav'n's inhabitants unite Each kindly beam, To put fell darkness' train to flight, With gentle gleam. The vessel's sides the waters wake, And waveless as the bounded lake, A solemn slumber seem to take Extending wide;-- Along the ship they sparkling break And gem the tide. Midst such a scene, no thoughts can find An entrance in the pensive mind, But such as virtue has refined, The past must smile-- And flatt'ring fancy will be kind, And hope beguile. Blest silence! solitary friend-- My thoughts with thee to _home_ I send; And _there_ absorbed my sorrows end-- In vain I roam-- As blossoms to the day-star tend, So I to home. Not more I owe that glorious ray That beams the blessing of the day; Not more my gratitude I pay For air and light-- Than for that Home now far away-- First, best delight. A little while, and that blest spot, From mem'ry shall raze each blot, And all my wand'rings there forgot, At last I'll rest-- No sorrow shall disturb the cot So loved, so blest. For the Southern Literary Messenger. AUTUMN WOODS.