A deep ton'd requiem's in the sigh Of the moaning blast, as it hurries by Yon fading forest; Upon its rushing wings is borne A voice sad as the anthem's tone Above the dead: It is the wild wind's hymn of death, Which pours in plaintive strains its breath O'er autumn woods; When hurl'd to earth by the fitful storm, Some frail leaf's wan and wither'd form Sinks to its tomb. Sad relics of the dying year; Thy springtide glories now are sear, And all departed: Where now's thy fairy robe of spring, The sunbeam and the zephyr's wing Once wove for thee? Say, where's that gush of melody Thy sylvan minstrels pour'd for thee In thy summer bowers? Or where's the Æolian song thou wouldst wake When some sporting zephyr's breath would shake Thy rustling leaves? Thy robe--thy song have past away, And the funeral pall and the funeral lay Alone are thine! How oft when summer's azure sky Was bath'd in the golden, gorgeous dye Of sunset's glow, I've lov'd to wander through thy bright And verdant bowers, gilt with light Of parting day; To list to the soft, faint melody Of thy vesper hymn, as it floated by On the passing breeze-- Or view, when on the stream's bright sheen Was pictured all thy fairy scene In mimic art;-- How calm that stream, in its slumber seeming, Of thee and all thy pageant dreaming Reflected there. But thro' thy shades 'twas not alone I stray'd. With me there wander'd one Of gentler mould, Around whose seraph form awakening, Young beauty's morning light was breaking In roseate beam-- And round whose stainless brow fond Love, And Hope and Joy a wreath had wove Of freshest bloom. Thou sad memento of the tomb! Say, shall that wreath, with its sunny bloom, E'er fade like thee? Shall Time's chill mildew on it light, Or sorrow breathe its _autumn_ blight Upon its flowers? A voice is in each falling leaf Which says, "earth's brightest joys are brief"-- _Thus fade its hopes!_ Then mid that wreath of fading flowers Fond pleasure weaves, to deck her bowers, Oh! twine that flower Whose fadeless hue, whose springtide bloom Immortal lives, beyond the tomb-- Bright SHARON'S ROSE. H. We extract the following sprightly effusion from the _North American Magazine_, published in Philadelphia. It bears a strong resemblance to the grace and freedom, and _piquancy_ which distinguish the muse of Halleck, one of the most highly gifted poets in America. We hope our fair readers, however, will not suppose that the author's satire is adapted to our meridian. The BEAUTIES of our southern clime, are too generous and disinterested to be won by the sordid allurements of splendid edifices, bank shares and gold eagles!--at least we hope so, and should be sorry to find ourselves mistaken. THE DECLARATION.