Thine is the brightness of the eye, Which tide nor time can dim; Thy voice is softer than the sigh Of love, or angel's hymn; The rose is thine--but not the hue That fadeth with the morn-- _Thy_ color's deeper when the dew Away from flower is gone-- When all beside is bleak and drear Thy genial blushes rise, Like flow'rets of the northern year, That bloom amid the ice; But more than all, thy beauty brings In her imperial train; And more than all, thy magic flings To dim the dizzened brain. Yes! more than these--than rosy cheek-- Is thy pure lofty mind; Thy nature calm, and soft and meek, With warmth of heart conjoined. These are the charms that deck _thee_ most, With radiance deep and pure,-- These are the flow'rs that thou may'st boast, When beauty's hour is o'er: Thy world may fade--its glory past,-- But in the sky afar, Thy mind will shine undimmed at last, A high and holy star! Go to the East--it is thy home-- In nature like to thee; And while o'er beds of flowers you roam, No breeze, no bird so free-- And while you breathe the Attar-Gul Of fragrant memory, Your heart with thrilling joy so full, It throbs like summer sea; Oh! then should thought of times gone by, With dew-drop dim thine ee, May, mid the breeze that dances nigh, A sigh be heard for me. ----. For the Southern Literary Messenger. EXTRACT FROM AN UNFINISHED POEM. There is a form before me now, A spirit with a peerless brow, And locks of gold that lightly lie, Like clouds on the air of a sunset sky, And a glittering eye, whose beauty blends With more than mortal tenderness, As bright a ray as Heaven sends To light those orbs, where the pure and blest Are taking their eternal rest. Sweet Spirit! thou hast stolen afar From thy home in yonder crystal Star, That I might look on thee, and bless Thy kindness and thy loveliness. How oft against these prison bars I have leaned my head, and gazed for hours Upon the wonder-telling stars; Thinking, if in their sinless bowers The memory of this planet dim E'er mingles with thy blissful dream. And when low winds were stealing by, I have sometimes closed my weary eye; And fancied the sigh that was silently stealing Through my damp hair, was thine own breathing: Then would I lay me down upon This carpetless cold flinty stone, And pray--how long! how fervently! To look on thee once more and die. For the Southern Literary Messenger. MOONLIGHT. The half-orbed Moon hangs out her silvery lamp, A liquid lustre pouring o'er the scene; While silk-winged zephyrs bathed in dewy damp Scarce move the pensile leaves, or break the calm serene. Radiant she rests upon the brow of night, The lucid diadem that crowns the sky; So softly beautiful, so mildly bright, She sways the ravished heart, and feeds the insatiate eye.