But more than all, at silent night, I love with one fair form to rove, Beneath the pale moon's pensive light, And whisper burning words of love. For the Southern Literary Messenger. TO ---- ---- Let not your heart be troubled.--_John_ 14: 1. Let Ocean swell with angry spite, And yawn and lash the heedless shore; And billows rage with mount'nous height, As if they'd be at peace no more. Let storm 'gainst storm their fury hurl, And loudly roar with fearful might, Till sea and land--yea, all the world-- May seem to grope in trouble's night. But let _thy heart_ thy Saviour know, Whose word once calmed the troubled deep, Who spake to winds that dared to blow, And _hushed_ them in the lap of sleep. Tis He can quell each rising sigh, And calm thy heart from cruel fears, As when the storms in silence lie, And not a wave the Ocean mars. SIWEL. For the Southern Literary Messenger. AN ITALIAN EXTRAVAGANZA. Addressed to a beautiful lady. Se tutti gli alberi del mondo Fossero penne-- Il cielo fosse carta, Il mare, inchiostro-- Non basterebbero a descrivere La minima parte della vostra perfexione! AN ATTEMPT AT TRANSLATION. Could we the sky's unbounded range, To paper all convert-- And had we power, miraculous, to change, To _pens_, the _trees_, To _ink_, the _seas_-- These would not all suffice to paint, in part, The rich perfections of thy mind and heart-- Thy _graces_--thy _desert_! ELLA. For the Southern Literary Messenger. WHERE IS MY HEART? BY ALEX. LACEY BEARD. Where is my heart? Its place of rest is not within this aching breast;-- Where does it dwell? It is not in the glittering hall, Where sunbright glances gaily fall 'Neath pleasure's spell. Where is my heart? Not in the crowd 'mid mirth and wine and revel loud;-- It is not there. Nor is it where the summer's sky Gives birth to flowers of brightest dye And balmy air. Where is my heart? Upon the sea, where dwell the joyous and the free, It has not gone. My withered heart, it has not flown Where love or hope or joy is known, Or pleasures dawn. Where is my heart? To the cold grave, where yew and cypress darkly wave, My heart has fled. Yes, where the form it worshipped sleeps, My blighted heart its vigil keeps, Beside the dead. For the Southern Literary Messenger. INVOCATION.