Distinct, coldly, calmly distinct--like a knell of death--horrible, horrible death, sank the eternal sounds within my soul. Years--years may roll away, but the memory of that epoch--never! Now was I indeed ignorant of the flowers and the vine--but the hemlock and the cypress overshadowed me night and day. And I kept no reckoning of time or place, and the stars of my Fate faded from Heaven, and, therefore, my spirit grew dark, and the figures of the earth passed by me like flitting shadows, and among them all I beheld only--Morella. The winds of the firmament breathed but one sound within my ears, and the ripples upon the sea murmured evermore--Morella. But she died, and with my own hands I bore her to the tomb, and I laughed, with a long and bitter laugh as I found no traces of the first in the charnel where I laid the second--Morella. For the Southern Literary Messenger. CONTENT'S MISHAP: A VERITABLE HISTORY. BY PERTINAX PLACID, ESQUIRE. CONTENT once dwelt in humble cot Beside a stream with music flowing, Embower'd in shade--a verdant spot-- Woodbines and wild flowers round it growing. There NATURE lavish of her store Breath'd fragrance over plain and mountain; A soft entrancing aspect wore, And sang sweet strains by brook and fountain. Within the cot where dwelt the maid PEACE ever reign'd, with mild dominion, And LOVE, reform'd, no longer stray'd, But loos'd his bow, and furl'd his pinion. There PLENTY crown'd each savory meal With simple food from NATURE'S bounty; And HEALTH contemn'd the boasted skill Of all the Doctors in the county. One morning PRIDE, a city belle, In FASHION'S gaudiest trappings glaring, The fragrant meads for once to smell, That way had driven to take an airing. By chance, a vagrant cloud sent down A shower to cool the sultry weather, When PRIDE protested with a frown, 'Twould spoil her riding-hat and feather. CONTENT'S snug dwelling stood hard by, And thither PRIDE her car directed: Welcomed with homely courtesy, She smiled to find her dress protected. The first brief salutations o'er, PRIDE view'd with scorn the humble cottage, Its narrow rooms, its sanded floor-- And turn'd her nose up at the pottage. Then thus, to meek CONTENT she spoke: "I wonder so genteel a maiden Should dwell in this secluded nook, As dull as ever hermit pray'd in. 'Tis shameful such a form and face Should hide themselves in this mean hovel: That so much loveliness and grace Should with such stupid people grovel. How would you grace those splendid halls Where I and PLEASURE lead the million! There you would shine at routes and balls, Queen of the _waltz_ and gay _cotillion_. These humdrum folks you live with now Are _cut_ by all who aim at fashion: To see you so beset, I vow, It puts me quite into a passion.