Part 3

Or non più de' pianti miei Che parean cangiate in rose. Violette inumidite, Ma nel punto che più fiso Non andrete impietesite. In te gli occhi disbramava, A infiorar quel niveo petto, Cui tra il velo già diviso Che diè funebre ricetto Agitato in sen balsava; Al più amabil degli Dei: Ecce uscir con la facella Chè li dove tomba avea, Da quel sen tra fiore e fiore, Sorger vidilo in subito Ecco uscir volando amore; E sorgendo sorridea E col vento de le penne D'un tal riso, ch'io non dubito, Irritare cosi quella, Per deludermi l'accorto, Che più fervida divenne Abbia únto d' esser morto. E una sua scintilla ardente E tu, bell' amica, in vano, Nel mio cor passò repente: Tenti in van col tuo rigore Come fosca nube tetra, Di celarmi un tanto arcano; Quando in Ciel risorgì il sole, Che mal puù celarsi amore. Se d' un raggio la penetra, Beu del suo risorgimento, Arder tutta e splender suole. Beu m' avvidi nel momento Tale in esso quella immensa Che di lagrime e di fiori Ed antica flamma intensa Io gli offriva il don funebre; Che sembrava spenta affatto Porche allor le tue palpebre Rallumavasi ad un tratto; Un soave e chiare lume E più viva traboccarsi Abbelliva di splendori; Dal mio cor con dolce pena, E le guancie a poco a poco E veloce diramarsi Rosseggiaro oltra il costume La sentii di vena in vena, D' una porpora di fuoco; E di vena in vena errando, Et il tornito sen venusto, Risalir più accesa al core, Che balzando allor più gia Che tremando, va mancando Lo spiraglio meno angusto Di dolcezza a tanto ardore. Fea del vel che lo copria: Onde più de' pianti miei Sin le caste violette Violette inumidite, Che locate su quel seno, Non andrete impietesite Già languenti venian meno, A infiorar quel niveo petto, In sembianze lascivette Che diè funebre ricetto Arrossian si grazione, Al più amabil degli Dei.]

[Footnote 2: Since this was written, the late political events of Spain have placed Martinez de la Rosa at the head of the ministry of the regent queen, Isabella. Supported by the count of Toreno, who is considered as the first statesman of his country, Gareli, who is known by his great talents, general Llander, minister of war, and Remisa, minister of finance, the Spanish government has at last published the _Estatuto Real_, which regulate the convocation of the _Cortes_.]

INTERESTING RUINS ON THE RAPPAHANNOCK.

If we do not err in the conjecture, our correspondent "NUGATOR" has frequently charmed the public by his writings both in prose and verse. But whether we are right or wrong, we can assure him that he will always find a ready demand for his "wares" at our "emporium." According to his request we have handed the inscription to a classical friend, whose elegant translation we also subjoin with the original.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Mr. White,--As I find you are about to establish a sort of Literary Emporium, to which every man, no matter how trifling his capital of ideas, may send his productions, I have resolved to transmit to you my small wares and merchandise. The relation I shall bear to your other correspondents, will be that, which the vender of trifles in a town bears to the wealthy merchant; and, therefore, I shall assume an appropriate title, and under this humble signature, shall consider myself at liberty to offer you any thing I may have, without order or method, and just as I can lay my hands upon it.--My head is somewhat like Dominie Sampson's, which as well as I remember, resembled a pawnbroker's shop where a goodly store of things were piled together, but in such confusion, he could never find what he wanted. When I get hold of any thing, however, I will send it to you, and if it be worth nothing, why just "martyr it by a pipe."

NUGATOR.

"Here lived, so might it seem to Fancy's eye, The lordly Barons of _our_ feudal day; On every side, lo! grandeur's relics lie Scatter'd in ruin o'er their coffin'd clay.-- How vain for man, short-sighted man, to say What course the tide of human things shall take! How little dream'd the Founder, that decay So soon his splendid edifice should shake, And of its high pretence, a cruel mock'ry make."

There cannot be a more striking exemplification of the powerful influence of laws upon the state of society, than is exhibited on the banks of the rivers in the lower part of Virginia. How many spacious structures are seen there, hastening to decay, which were once the seats of grandeur and a magnificent hospitality! The barons of old were scarcely more despotic over their immediate demesnes, than were the proprietors of these noble mansions, with their long train of servants and dependents; their dicta were almost paramount to law throughout their extensive and princely possessions. But since the introduction of republican institutions, and the alteration in the laws respecting the descent of property, and more especially since the "docking of entails," a total change has been effected. Our castles are crumbling on every side--estates are subdivided into minuter portions, instead of being transmitted to the eldest son; and so complete is the revolution in sentiment, that he would be deemed a savage, who would now leave the greater part of his family destitute, for the sake of aggrandizing an individual. It is not unusual to find a son in possession of the once splendid establishment of his fathers, with scarcely paternal acres enough to afford him sustenance, and hardly wood enough to warm a single chamber of all his long suite of apartments. The old family coach, with his mother and sisters, lumbers along after a pair of superannuated skeletons; and some faithful domestic, like Caleb Balderstone, is put to the most desperate shifts to support the phantom of former grandeur. Debts are fast swallowing up the miserable remnant of what was once a principality, while some wealthy democrat of the neighborhood, who has accumulated large sums by despising an empty show, is ready to foreclose his mortgage, and send the wretched heir of Ravenswood to mingle with the Bucklaws and Craigengelts of the west. Many a story of deep interest might be written upon the old state of things in Virginia, if we possessed some indefatigable Jedidiah Cleishbotham to collect the traditions of our ancestors.

Those who took part in our revolutionary struggle were too much enlightened not to foresee these consequences, and therefore deserve immortal credit for their disinterested opposition to Great Britain. Had they been aristocrats instead of the purest republicans, they would surely have thrown their weight into the opposite scale. We do not estimate enough the merit of the rich men of that day. The danger is now past--the mighty guerdon won--the storm is gone over, and the sun beams brightly: but though bright our day, it was then a dark unknown--dark as the hidden path beyond the grave--and it was nobly dared to risk their all in defence of liberty. They knew that freedom spurned a vain parade, and would not bow in homage to high-born wealth; yet their splendid possessions were staked upon the desperate throw, and the glorious prize was won. Such were not the anticipations of the _founders_ of these establishments; but such was surely the merit of their sons: and it is painful to think how few, of all who engaged in that noble struggle, have been handed down to fame. Many a one, whose name has been loudly sounded through the earth, would have shrunk from such a sacrifice, and clung to his paternal hearth; and yet these modern Curtii, who renounced the advantages of birth, and leaped into the gulf for their country's sake, have not won a single garland for their Roman worth.

There is a scene in the county of Lancaster, where these reflections pressed themselves very forcibly upon my mind. Imagine an ample estate on the margin of the Rappahannock--with its dilapidated mansion house--the ruins of an extensive wall, made to arrest the inroads of the waves, as if the proprietor felt himself a Canute, and able to stay the progress of the sea--a church of the olden time, beautiful in structure, and built of brick brought from England, then the home of our people. Like Old Mortality, I love to chisel out the moss covered letters of a tombstone; and below I send you the result of my labors, with a request that some of your correspondents will take the trouble to give you a faithful translation of the Latin inscription. The only difficulty consists in a want of knowledge of the names of the officers under the colonial government. The epitaph will show by whom the church was built, and the motive for its erection. In the yard are three tombstones conspicuous above the rest, beneath which repose the bones of the once lordly proprietor of the soil and his two wives. How vain are human efforts to perpetuate by monuments the memory of the great! The sepulchre of Osymandus is said by Diodorus to have been a mile and a quarter in circumference. It had this inscription: _"I am Osymandus, King of Kings. If any one is desirous to know how great I am and where I lie, let him surpass any of my works."_ With more propriety might he have said, _let him search out my works_; for we are left to conjecture the very site of his tomb. It would be easy to extend this narrative, but perhaps what struck me as interesting would be unworthy a place in your Literary Messenger.

THE EPITAPH. TRANSLATION. H. S. E. HERE LIES

Vir honorabilis Robertus Carter, Robert Carter, Esquire; an Armiger, qui genus honestum honorable man, who exalted his high dotibus eximiis, moribus birth by noble endowments and pure antiquis illustravit. Collegium morals. He sustained the College of Gulielmi et Mariæ temporibus William and Mary in the most trying difficilimis propugnavit. times.

Gubernator, He was Governor, Senatus Rogator et Quæstor, sub Speaker of the House and Treasurer, serenissimis Principibus under the most serene Princes Gulielmo, Anna, Georgio 1 mo. et William, Anne, George the 1st and 2 do. 2d.

A publicis consiliis concilii Elected Speaker by the Public per sexennium præses, plus annum Assembly for six years, and Coloniæ Præfectus cum regiam Governor for more than a year, he dignitatem tam publicum equally upheld the regal dignity libertatem æquali jure asseruit. and public freedom.

Opibus amplissimis bene partis Possessed of ample wealth, instructus, ædem hanc sacram In honorably acquired, he built and Deum pietatis grande monumentum, endowed at his own expense this propriis sumptibus extruxit. sacred edifice, a lasting monument of his piety to God.

Locupletavit. In omnes quos humaniter incepit, Entertaining his friends with nec prodigus, nec parcus hospes. kindness, he was neither a prodigal Liberalilatem insignem testantur not a thrifty host. debita munifice remissa.

Primo Judithum, Johannis His first wife was Judith, daughter Armistead Armigeri filiam, of John Armistead, Esquire; his deinde Betty, generosa second Betty, a descendant of the Landonorum stirpe oriundam sibi noble family of the Landons, by connubio junctas habuit. E whom he had many children-- quibus prolem numerosam suscepit. On whose education he expended a In qua erudienda pecuniæ vim considerable portion of his maximam insumpsit property.

Tandem honorum et dierum satur At length, full of honors and cum omnia vitæ munera egregiæ years, having discharged all the præstitisset obiit Pri. Non. duties of an exemplary life, he Aug. An. Dom. 1732 Aet. 69. departed from this world on the 4th day of August, 1732, in the 69th year of his age.

Miseri solamen, viduæ The wretched, the widowed and the præsidium, orbi patrem, ademptum orphans, bereaved of their comfort, lugent. protector and father, alike lament his loss.

STORY FROM VOLTAIRE.

We hope to have the pleasure of delighting our readers frequently with the chaste and classic pen of our correspondent M. By a curious coincidence, about the time he was translating the subjoined story from Voltaire, a correspondent of the Richmond Compiler furnished the Editor of that paper with another version, which was published. Without disparagement to the latter however, the reader of taste will find no difficulty in awarding the preference to the one which we insert in our columns.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

Below, is a neat and sportive little story of Voltaire's, never before translated into English, that I know of; though containing sufficient point and good sense to make it well worthy of that honor. No one who has ever sorrowed, can fail to acknowledge the justice of styling TIME the "Great Consoler." The balm he brings, has never failed sooner or later to heal any grief, which did not absolutely _derange_ the mind of its victim. By one part of the tale, the reader will be reminded of the philosopher in Rasselas, who, the morning after he had eloquently and conclusively demonstrated the folly of grieving for any of the ills of life, was found weeping inconsolably, for the loss of his only daughter. Whether Dr. Johnson, or the French wit, first touched off this trait of human weakness, is not material: it may be set down as rather a coincidence than a plagiarism. So much of the region of thought is _common ground_, over which every active mind continually gambols, that it would be wonderful if different feet did not sometimes tread in identical foot prints.

M.

From the French of Voltaire.

THE CONSOLED.

The great philosopher, Citophilus, said one day to a justly disconsolate lady--"Madam, an English Queen, a daughter of the great Henry IV. was no less unhappy than you are. She was driven from her kingdom: she narrowly escaped death in a storm at sea: she beheld her royal husband perish on the scaffold." "I am sorry for her;" said the lady--and fell a weeping at her own misfortunes.

"But," said Citophilus, "remember Mary Stuart. She was very becomingly in love with a gallant musician, with a fine _tenor_ voice. Her husband slew the musician before her face: and then her good friend and relation, Elizabeth, who called herself the Virgin Queen, had her beheaded on a scaffold hung with black, after an imprisonment of eighteen years." "That was very cruel," replied the lady--and she plunged again into sorrow.

"You have perhaps heard," said her comforter, "of the fair Jane of Naples, who was taken prisoner and strangled?" "I have a confused recollection of her," said the afflicted one.

"I must tell you," added the other, "the fate of a Queen, who, within my own time, was dethroned by night, and died in a desert island." "I know all that story," answered the lady.

"Well then, I will inform you of what befel a great princess, whom I taught philosophy. She had a lover, as all great and handsome princesses have. Her father once entering her chamber, surprised the lover, whose features were all on fire, and whose eye sparkled like a diamond: she, too, had a most lively complexion. The young gentleman's look so displeased the father, that he administered to him the most enormous box on the ear, ever given in that country. The lover seized a pair of tongs, and broke the old gentleman's head; which was cured with difficulty, and still carries the scar. The nymph, in despair, sprung through the window; and dislocated her foot in such a way, that she to this day limps perceptibly, though her mien is otherwise admirable. The lover was condemned to die, for having broken the head of a puissant monarch. You may judge the condition of the princess, when her lover was led forth to be hanged. I saw her, during her long imprisonment: she could speak of nothing but her afflictions."

"Then why would not you have me brood over mine?" said the lady. "Because," said the philosopher, "you _ought not_ to brood over them; and because, so many great ladies having been so miserable, it ill becomes _you_ to despair. Think of Hecuba--of Niobe." "Ah!" said the lady, "if I had lived in their time, or in that of all your fine princesses, and you, to comfort them, had told them my misfortunes, do you think they would have listened to you?"

The next day, the philosopher lost his only son; and was on the point of dying with grief. The lady had a list prepared, of all the kings who had lost their children, and carried it to the philosopher: he read it, found it correct, and----wept on, as much as ever. Three months after, they met again; and were surprised to find each other cheerful and gay. They caused a handsome statue to be reared to TIME, with this inscription:

"TO THE GREAT CONSOLER."

ORIGINAL POETRY.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

I have been permitted to copy the original verses which I send you, from a young lady's album. They were written by a gentleman of literary merit, whose modesty will probably be somewhat startled at seeing himself in print. I could not resist the opportunity however, of adorning the columns of your first number with so fine a specimen of native genius. According to my poor taste, and humble judgment in such matters, these lines are beautiful. They are tinged with the deep misanthropy of Byron, and yet have all the flowing smoothness and vivacity of Moore. Shall it be said after reading such poetry, that the muses are altogether neglected in the Ancient Dominion--that there is no genuine ore in our intellectual mines which with a little labor may be refined into pure gold? Shall it be longer contended that we are altogether a nation of talkers, and that politics, summer barbecues and horse-racing are our all engrossing and exclusive recreations. In truth, is not this the very land of poetry! Our colonial and revolutionary history is itself fruitful in the materials of song; and even our noble rivers--our lofty mountains--our vast and impenetrable forests--and our warm and prolific sun, are so many sublime sources of inspiration. With respect to the belle passion,--_that_ has in all ages, climates and countries, constituted one of the strongest incitements to poetical genius. The imagination, warmed by impressions of feminine beauty and innocence, at once takes wing, and wanders through regions of thought and melancholy--investing the object of its idolatry with attributes and perfections which more properly belong to a purer state of being. Whether the philosophy of the subjoined stanzas is equal to their harmony, I leave to your readers to decide. The voluntary sacrifice of the heart at the shrine of prudence is doubtless heroic; but there are few lovers, and especially of the poetic temperament, who are willing to submit to "brokenness of heart" rather than encounter the hazard of sharing with a beloved object the "cup of sorrow." Whether, moreover, the ingenious author was actually breathing in eloquent earnestness his own "private griefs," or amusing himself only by the creations of fancy,--I am not prepared to determine. One thing I do know, however--that the charming nymph in whose album these lines were written, though not "too dear to love," possesses a heart both "warm and soft," and is in every respect worthy of all the admiration which the most romantic lover could bestow.

H.

_Lines written in a Young Lady's Album._

_Air_--"The Bride."

I'd offer thee this heart of mine, If I could love thee less; But hearts as warm, as soft as thine, Should never know distress. My fortune is too hard for thee, 'Twould chill thy dearest joy: I'd rather weep to see thee free, Than win thee to destroy.

I leave thee in thy happiness, As one too dear to love! As one I'll think of but to bless, Whilst wretchedly I rove. But oh! when sorrow's cup I drink, All bitter though it be, How sweet to me 'twill be, to think It holds no drop for thee.

Then fare thee well! An exile now, Without a friend or home, With anguish written on my brow, About the world I'll roam. For all my dreams are sadly o'er-- _Fate_ bade them all depart,-- And I will leave my native shore, In brokenness of heart. S.

Our young correspondent "M'C." will perceive that his poem has been altered in some of its expressions, and perhaps not altogether to his liking. Our object has been, not to damp the aspirations of genius, but to prune its luxuriance. The ardour of youth too often betrays into extravagance, which can only be corrected by cultivation and experience. We hope that he will persevere in his invocations to the muse,--believing that the time will come when she will amply reward him by her smiles.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SERENADE.

Sweet lady, awake from thy downy pillow! Moonlight is gleaming all bright on yon billow, Night-flowers are blooming,--south winds are blowing So gently, they stir not the smooth waters flowing.

Wake lady! wake from thy gentle slumber, Heav'n's gems are all sparkling, uncounted in number, How calm, yet how brilliant those beautiful skies, Which the wave glances back like the beam of thine eyes.

Wake, dearest! wake thou, my heart's fond desire! All trembling these fingers sweep over the lyre, This bosom is heaving with love's tender throes, And my song, like the swan's last, is wild at the close.

Yet thou wilt not list to me,--then lady, farewell! My lyre shall be hush'd with this last mournful swell; All lonely and desolate,--onward I roam; My bosom is void!--the wide world is my home! M'C.

It is with much pleasure that the publisher is enabled to present in the first number of the "Messenger" the following poetical contributions, not heretofore published, from the pen of Mrs. Sigourney, of Hartford, Connecticut. There are few literary readers on either side of the Potomac, who are not familiar with some of the productions at least, of this accomplished authoress. The purity of her sentiments, and the strength and mellowness of her versification, will remind the reader of the highly gifted and almost unrivalled Hemans.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

COLUMBUS BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY OF SALAMANCA.

"Columbus found, that in advocating the spherical figure of the earth, he was in danger or being convicted not merely of _error_,--but even of heterodoxy."--_Washington Irving_.

St. Stephen's cloister'd hall was proud In learning's pomp that day; For there, a rob'd and stately crowd Press'd on, in long array. A mariner, with simple chart Confronts that conclave high, While strong ambition stirs his heart, And burning thoughts, in wonder part From lip and sparkling eye.

_What hath he said?_--With frowning face, In whisper'd tones they speak, And lines upon their tablets trace, That flush each ashen cheek: The Inquisition's mystic doom Sits on their brows severe, And bursting forth in vision'd gloom, Sad heresy from burning tomb, Groans on the startled ear.