Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The hapless bard who sings her praise, Now worships at the shrine of Anna? Twas such a vision, bright but brief, In early youth his true heart rended, Then left it like a fallen leaf, On life's most rugged thorn suspended. Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The hapless bard who sings her praise Wept tears of blood for such an Anna! [Footnote 1: "The gayest scene in nature is a southern savannah, enamelled with its rich variety of flowers."--_Humboldt_.] [Footnote 2: "The Incas claim their descent from the sun."--_Las Casas_.] For the Southern Literary Messenger. BEAUTY WITHOUT LOVELINESS. He looked on the chiselled _form_ and _face_, And the roseate blush beguiling, And the arch of the eye-brow's pencilled trace, And the lip in moisture smiling: He looked on the raven _curls_ that fell O'er the _brow_ of Parian whiteness, And the _silken lash_ that softened the spell Of the _eye_ that swam in brightness: He looked on the _slender hand_ that shone, Where the sparkle of gems abounded, Like the star of eve on her vesper throne, By the pearls of the sky surrounded: He looked on the _arm_, as in floating grace, It waved o'er the chords entrancing, And the feathery _foot_, as it marked each trace Of the melody in dancing. He looked on all these, while links of gold With the silken chain were blended; And yet in his bosom calm and cold, No wave of the soul ascended. No rapture glowed in his tranquil gaze, The tremulous thought revealing; He looked for the light of soul in the face, And saw not a ray o'er it stealing. For the Southern Literary Messenger. HAPPY LOVE. The Nightingale sings to the midnight air, All darkling and alone: And the Lover's lute, mid the gloom of despair, Gives forth its sweetest tone. But the Lark springs up with the morn's first blush, And mounts the clouds above; As he sings to his mate, in the hawthorn bush, The tale of his happy love. But hark, that note from the clustering shade! It has reached his listening ear; And, with pinions closed, to her leafy bed, He comes, like a falling star. O! happy Love! O happy pair! O for that tuneful art! That I might breathe in my Lucy's ear The voice of a happy heart. For the Southern Literary Messenger. SORROWS OF LOVE. TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL ON SEPARATION. Oh! weep not tho' we're bid to part, Since time nor distance e'er can sever The links that bind my changeless heart, To thy angelic form forever. As summer clouds that hide the sun, When once removed restore him brighter; This night of woe as soon as done, Will make our love-day morn the lighter.