HOWARD.

O, CHILL is the night air, and cold is this tomb,
But colder those relics that rest in its womb.

In darkness and silence, O long shalt thou sleep,
Though the friend of thy boyhood, in anguish shall

weep.

Yon bright stars in heaven for ever shall shine, But death is thy sleep, they can never be thine. No sun in his glory, from the zenith on high, Shall beam with his lustre, to illumine thine eye.

No anthem of friendship, that floats on the gale, Can swell in thine ears 'neath the clods of the vale; Not the lightning's bright flash, nor the thunder's loud peal,

Can waken thy deafness, or thine eyelids unseal;

Yet the friend of thy youth, when twilight shall

close,

Shall seek the sad tomb where thy relics repose;

And the tears of his sorrow, by starlight, shall flow, Though no friend of his bosom its anguish shall know.

But the spirits that soar from the dust of the dead,
O'er the minstrel their halo of glory shall shed,
To illumine with virtues from regions above,
The bosom that thrills with the emotions of love.
Lexington, Ky., 1838.

WILLIAM.

SLEEP on in the shroud that oblivion hath cast,
Like a mantle of darkness, around thee.

Sleep on, for the proud with their pageant have past,

And the brightness of beauty that bound thee.

No tears o'er thy grave by thy kindred were shed;
No offerings of sorrow they paid thee;

But strangers, in silence, surrounded thy bed,
And alone in thy dwelling they laid thee.

No monument tells where thy relics repose;
Or the wrong that to ruin betrayed thee,
When clouds o'er thy vision of rapture arose,
And the mantle of sorrow arrayed thee.

Yet still in our minds shall thy memory live,
And our spirits in silence deplore thee,

Though hope ne'er a glimmering of joy shall give,
Or time to our bosoms restore thee.

Sleep on, for the pangs that affection hath borne,

In thy dwelling of darkness would grieve thee. Sleep on, for the hearts that affection hath torn,

Have but tributes of anguish to leave thee.

Natchez, 1842.

TWILIGHT.

THERE is an hour, that lures our thoughts to heaven, That tells us of our fallen lot;

When twilight lingers on the verge of even,

And earthly cares are all forgot;

When from its tenement to spheres above,
The spirit gazing with delight,
Soars on the pinions of celestial love,
To heaven's aerial height.

It is the hour when glories gild the west;
Earth's brightest prospects fade away;
And nature sinking to her silent rest,
Becomes the emblem of decay;

When o'er the soul a chastening sadness steals,

That slowly starts the silent tear,

While cheering hope triumphantly reveals

The vision of a brighter sphere;