And worse than all would be the smile Which once was mine, and only mine; Thou wert my hope--thy love my pride-- Thy heart my spirit's chosen shrine. But _now_--oh! smile not on me _now_; 'Tis insult--worse, 'tis mockery! Estranged, and cold, and false, thou art; Smile if thou wilt--but not on me. M. S. L. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO IANTHE. Think of me when the morning wakes, With a smile that's bright and a blush that's new; And the wave-rocked goddess gently shakes From her rosy wings, the gems of dew. Think of me, when the day-god burns In his noon-tide blaze and his purest light; And think of me when his chariot turns To the sombre shades of silent night. Think of me, when the evening's store Of brilliance, fades on the wondering eye; And think of me, when the flowers pour Their incense to the star-lit sky. Think of me when the evening star, Through the deep blue sky shall dart his beams; And think of me when the mind, afar, Shall chase the forms of its joyous dreams. Think of me in the hour of mirth-- Think of me in the hour of prayer-- Aye! think amidst each scene of earth, You feel my spirit is mingling there. For morning's beam--nor evening's light-- Nor days of woe--nor hours of glee-- Nor e'en religion's holiest rite, Can steal or force my thoughts from thee. FERGUS. For the Southern Literary Messenger. SONNET. FROM THE PORTUGUES OF CAMOENS. BY R. H. WILDE, _Of Georgia_. Sonnet xliii. of the edition of 1779-1780. "O cysne quando sente ser chegada," &c. They say the Swan, though mute his whole life long, Pours forth sweet melody when life is flying, Making the desert plaintive with his song, Wondrous and sad, and sweetest still while dying; Is it for life and pleasure past he's sighing, Grieving to lose what none can e'er prolong? Oh, no! he hails its close, on death relying As an escape from violence and wrong: And thus, dear lady! I at length perceiving, The fatal end of my unhappy madness, In thy oft broken faith no more believing, Welcome despair's sole comforter with gladness, And mourning one so fair is so deceiving, Breathe out my soul in notes of love and sadness. For the Southern Literary Messenger. EPIGRAMME FRANCAISE. Lit de mes plaisirs; lit de mes pleurs; Lit on je nais; lit on je mours; Tu nous fais voir combien procheins Sort nos plaisirs de nos chagrins. TRANSLATION. Couch of Sorrow; Couch of Joy; Of Life's first breath, and Death's last sigh; Thou makest us see what neighbors near Our pleasures and our sorrows are. The above was the execution of a task proposed by a French gentleman, who, boasting the piquant terseness of his language, said that the original could not be rendered into English. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TRUE CONSOLATION.