Of the beat of a heart most tender; The sigh of a shell-tinct lip, As soft as the land tones, wandering Far leagues, over ocean deep; Of a step, as light in its falling, On the breast of the beaded lea, As the fall of the fairy moonlight, On the leaf of yon tulip tree. I think of these and the murmur Of bird and katadyd, Whose home is the grave yard cypress, Whose goblet the honey-reed; And then I weep! for Rosalie Has gone to her early rest; And the green-lipped reed and the daisy, Suck sweets from her maiden breast. L. L. _Winchester, Va._ For the Southern Literary Messenger. STRAY LEAVES. See'st thou yon withered tree, Which stretches towards the sea, Its long and ghastly arms-- Does it not say to thee, How speedily shall flee, Thy now so envied charms. That forehead high In the dust shall lie, And that soft dark eye Shall be shrivelled and dry; And those pearly teeth, Shall be trodden beneath, The foot of the idle passer-by. * * * * * Change the subject, change the measure, Sing not of death--let life and pleasure Be the theme of Poet's lay; Our earth contains full many a treasure-- Let us seek them while we may. Fill the glass with yellow juice, Of Rhine's old banks, the rich produce; Or let the ruby claret flow, Or Portugal's dark streams unloose-- They all bring joy and banish woe. Let not woman enter here, Woman brings but pain and care, Woman smiles but to deceive, In woman's tears let none believe. Love is folly--fill the glass, In mirth and glee, the hours we'll pass. The smiling vine alone is true, The grape's pure tears none ever rue. For the Southern Literary Messenger. BERENICE--A TALE. BY EDGAR A. POE. Misery is manifold. The wretchedness of earth is multiform. Overreaching the wide horizon like the rainbow, its hues are as various as the hues of that arch, as distinct too, yet as intimately blended. Overreaching the wide horizon like the rainbow! How is it that from Beauty I have derived a type of unloveliness?--from the covenant of Peace a simile of sorrow? But thus is it. And as, in ethics, Evil is a consequence of Good, so, in fact, out of Joy is sorrow born. Either the memory of past bliss is the anguish of to-day, or the agonies which _are_, have their origin in the ecstasies which _might have been_. I have a tale to tell in its own essence rife with horror--I would suppress it were it not a record more of feelings than of facts.