Part 11

Creation saw your timeless birth, When from your own clear sapphire skies, Ye looked upon the virent earth,-- An everlasting paradise!-- And seemed to mock with silent gaze, Nature's green garb and tuneless lays!

Since then ye've read the world's black page, And seen a stream sublime, Roll its dark waters o'er an age Of countless years of time!-- In whose deep, dark, unletter'd caves, Earth hides her mighty as in graves!

Life's wasting--but ye still shine on, And seem to me to be, The lights upon the horizon Of eternity's black sea!-- Pointing to the sun-lit far off west, Where all immortal spirits rest!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO * * * * *.

Believe not that my heart is cold, And feels not friendship's sacred fire, If I sometimes myself withhold, And from thy festive scenes retire.

Oh, no! I love the social bower Where friendship smiles with joyous mirth, And yet to me there is an hour More dear than all those scenes on earth.

'Tis when in pensive mood, the mind, Retires within itself to muse, And some bright dream, long since resigned, With sad though pleasing thought reviews;

Some golden dream of early years, When all the heart was warm and true; And life, unshaded yet with cares, Displayed its best and brightest hue.

'Twas then I dreamed of faithful love, That would o'er time and change prevail-- Food, fairy scenes of pleasure wove-- Bright, verdant spots in life's dark vale.

But time advanced, and at one sweep My air-built castles tore away; And, like a wreck upon the deep, My shattered hopes and prospects lay.

Upon life's ocean still I'm tossed; And tho' the skies are sometimes bright, Yet on the waves again I'm lost, Midst howling storms and pitchy night.

Believe not then my heart is cold, And feels not friendship's sacred fire, If I sometimes myself withhold, And from thy festive scenes retire.

L.

_Pittsylvania_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE GRAVE SEEKERS.

BY R. S. F.

Come part the crowd, and open a way, For those who are seeking the grave; Some are pressing on in the light of day, Some by the moon's obscurer ray, Some on land and some on the wave.

Now come with me to the festive hall, Where in mirth they dance and sing, Till echo is answered by echo's call, As the merry peals ring from one and all; To the grave they swiftly wing.

Again with me, come haste away Where the theatre shines so bright, For there the lamps, with their peerless ray, Have darkness changed into brighter day. They gaze on the stage with delight!

Come follow this crowd which moves as the wave On the gently ebbing sea; With the scenes of the night their bosoms heave, But little they think the next is the grave, Not of the stage--but eternity.

See, reckless youth--maturer age Alike are far from heaven; In festive scenes their time engage-- They idly sport--they madly rage-- While to the grave they are driven.

Ye may trace their path as ye move along The busy crowds of care; In the house of God--in the house of song-- In distant isles--the waves among, To the grave they must all repair.

So part the crowd, and open a way, For those who are seeking the grave; Some are pressing on in the light of day, Some by the moon's obscurer ray, Some on land and some on the wave.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A YOUNG CHILD.

BY D. MARTIN, _of Mobile_.

Thou hast a clear, unsullied brow, A bright and dreaming eye,-- And a spirit free and chainless, As cherubs in yon sky!

The meteor lights of intellect, Glance lightly on thee now, And play like fairy revellers, Upon thy parian brow!

Well, be it so--and may thy life Be like a summer stream, That sparkles into gladness, Beneath the sun's bright beam.

May thy brow ne'er wear the coloring Of passion's stern commotion,-- Which darkens many a God-like one, While on life's stormy ocean!

May the sunny hours of childhood Be the last to pass away,-- And the setting sun of life's dark night, Dawn on a brighter day!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

CUPID'S SPORT.

"Am I in fairy land?--or tell me, pray, To what love lighted bower I've found my way? Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled In woodland maze, or closely-tangled wild."

Some where in Virginia, and in a certain year,--but I beg you will not inquire when or where, for you will break the thread of my discourse, and I shall be compelled, like corporal Trim when he was rehearsing the Lord's prayer before my dear uncle Toby, to begin at the beginning, at every interruption,--there lived a young man, in a certain town--

Now my dear reader, do you suppose I intend telling you a story without a single name, date or place in it? If you do, I am afraid you would see me at Kamschatka, or in Simms' hole, before you would make up your mind to travel one inch with me, or listen to one syllable.

Well, then, in a _certain_ place, and at a _certain_ time, as young _Timothy_ was sitting in the cool evening's shade, musing o'er the events that human life befall, and reflecting upon the many ups and downs he must necessarily encounter during the residue of his life, that _old_ heathen god, who, paradoxical as it may appear, is still as _young_ as he was at the day of his birth, I mean sly Cupid, who was, is, and ever will be a boy to all eternity, happened to have been snugly perched upon a branch of the very tree under which our friend was reclining, and the little urchin sat pluming his variegated wings, and feeling the points of his keen feathery arrows, preparing for his evening's sport.

Poor Tim! how little did he dream he was the subject the young god had selected for as merry a frolic as ever fortune smiled upon in her merriest mood. Tim was in his twentieth year,--"a leal light heart was in his breast," he knew not the cares and anxieties of the world, nor had he yet encountered fortune's frowns; he had enjoyed a full portion of her smiles and blandishments, and his life had flitted along like a gay summer's dream. He had yet to learn that all his castles were but air built and fanciful, and it was necessary he should plod a little upon his mother earth. Tim was none of your dashing thorough-going bloods, who soar aloft with the eagles of the day, ever and anon to pounce upon some harmless pigeon,--nor was he one of your gig and tandem boys,--flourish and dash,--tinsel and paint,--who whirl about for a season, and are all the go while the chink or the credit lasts, but who, finally whirl off to jail, or into obscurity and insignificance, nobody knows where, and nobody cares when. He was a mild, pleasant, merry-making fellow. As for his person,--my dear miss, you must excuse me; I know from your looks, you are curious to know whether he had black hair and black eyes,--or light hair and blue eyes,--or red hair and grey eyes,--but, really, I can't tell you,--certain it is, he had eyes and a nose, and

"When he happened to grin, His mouth stood across 'Twixt his nose and his chin."

There he lay, all defenceless, on his right side, (I like to be particular,) with his clean white roundabout, and his waistcoat unbuttoned, both thrown carelessly over his left arm; there lay his heart, gently swelling and subsiding and he unconscious of its undulating flow--while Cupid--I was about to say, while Cupid's keen eyes were penetrating its inmost recesses, and eyeing it as a hawk some sunny perch in a limpid stream,--but, alas for Cupid--the ancients have interdicted the use of his eyes; nevertheless, on the present occasion, it is necessary for my purposes that Cupid should, at least, take the bandage from off his eyes, and the ancients to the contrary notwithstanding, I do maintain that the sly god has as beautiful a pair of eyes as ever were seen,--yes, and he is able to change them at his pleasure. At one time, he appears with the mildest, softest, kindest, clearest, heavenly blue eyes;--at another, with the keenest, blazing, and yet the blackest eyes that ever flashed wit, and eloquence, and expressing all the passions that the heart ever darts through its open portals. All eyes are his, of every hue and every form,--and at this moment, he was using as playful and as devilish a pair, as ever bewitched and enchanted a trembling maiden. He sat quietly selecting the most mortal parts of that defenceless heart, with bow well strung, and barbed arrows, and ever and anon, he placed the winged messenger to the string and twanged his silver bow. Cupid sometimes but tips his arrows' point with a poison, as rapid in its action and as efficacious as the most powerful prussic acid, and wo to the youth or the maid who feels the deadly pang; at other times, he slightly dips the barb, and leaves it to time and circumstances to develop its potent influence. On the present occasion, having smitten poor Tim with a double portion, away he flew, to practise his wiles on other subjects. Gentle reader, you are now introduced to our young friend Tim,--you have seen him in a condition worse than that of Daniel in the lions' den, and whether he is delivered or not your patience will enable you to discover. Would that I could have interposed a shield to protect the youth, but what the fates decree no mortal can prevent,--and you know, what is to be, happens for the best.

Have you ever seen a lady setting her cap for a beau? This is an every day occurrence, and yet how difficult to explain, though ever so easy to perform. It is one of those things that delicate fingers alone can accomplish or pourtray. For my part, I have seen, and heard, and thought, and talked much and often of these caps, that, nine times in ten, are no caps at all, and yet the exact method of setting them is not to be described. Were I to describe the lady's habiliments, you would have not the least idea how her cap was set,--were I to dwell upon the peculiar cut of the cap itself,--its points or its quillings, its trimmings or its laces, and how it was placed, whether on the tip of the head, or down upon the ears, or a little to one side, or square,--or round,--it matters not, you would still be wide of the mark; but yet, when the "cap is set," there is no mistake in the matter.

Good reader, you are not acquainted with my little Mary. She had as happy a knack of setting a cap, as ever a lass had since the days of mother Eve, and on this very evening, she will appear with it set to such advantage, that all the family servants, as she passes them, will utter an involuntary "umph--u--u!"--Can you conceive the peculiar sound here vainly attempted to be embodied--for of all utterable exclamations it is the most exhilirating to a miss in her teens. If you cannot:--know, that it signifies, "I tell you what, young massa, you better steer clear." Little Molly is not the greatest beauty of the age, nor yet the loveliest flower that ever bloomed, but she was pretty enough to make Cupid's little arrows rankle in Tim's susceptible heart, and fate would have it, that they should accidentally meet, some how or other, wherever they went. She had a peculiar way of her own, of fixing on a bonnet,--a little gipsy bonnet,--down the sides of which, hung her long flaxen ringlets, and where she parted her hair on her forehead, there was carelessly pinned a half blooming moss rose, behind which sat Cupid laughing in his sleeve. I say carelessly pinned, because it seemed as though it mattered not whether 'twere there or not, and yet, more care had been used in giving it its particular position, than all the rest of her dress,--and perhaps, after all, this was "setting her cap." Tim had never seen little Molly look half so sweet before, and when his eyes and her's would meet, there was a sensation created that thrilled through his every fibre; to him, that rose bud seemed to be instinct with life and animation, and Cupid's laughing eyes and smiling face made every leaf "a heart quake." Tim had been thought to be brave, his comrades always looked up to him as a leader in daring enterprizes. Men have been known to walk up to the cannon's mouth when the gunner stood with the lighted match within a few inches of the powder, but to storm a rose bud, manned by Cupid, on so polished a brow, required a dare-devil spirit that human nature shrunk from,--and though Tim would have given the world to have touched that bud, he could not have advanced his finger an inch towards it by any possibility. This first symptom of the operation of Cupid's arrows but few have escaped. You would give the world to approach the loved object, and yet a touch would create a shock as violent as that from a Leyden jar, well charged with the electric fluid. Little Molly's was what would be termed a laughing face, her clear blue eyes were lighted up by a mind vivid and playful; cheerfulness and contentment were conspicuous on her brow,--but yet she was one of your real mischievous little imps, who knew a thing or two, and was up to all kinds of tricks,--in truth, she used to say of herself that she had a little devil in her;--now don't be alarmed my good reader; I don't mean the evil spirit who roams about, seeking whom to devour--"that tailed, horned, heartless chiel,--the very deil,"--but, she had a way of practising so many little artful, innocently wicked things, and they were done in so artless a manner, that though you would think from their effects his satanic majesty alone was the guilty perpetrator, yet you could not help loving his highness the more for his misdeeds. Of all things in the world, she seemed to derive most pleasure from practising her playfulness on friend Tim, and at every successive effort, Tim would only exclaim, "surely the devil's in the girl! what in the devil does she mean?" Tim had better have suffered the devil to go about his business--but no, he kept inquiring what in the devil the girl meant, till Cupid had him, head and ears, neck and shoulders, heart and soul, body and life, as safe a prisoner as ever was incarcerated in a dungeon's darkness. Little Molly was perfectly innocent of any intention to entrap our friend; nothing was further from her thoughts; she only intended at the outset to gratify her disposition for fun, and she knew no more the state of her own heart than if she had been deprived of that throbbing, thumping, turbulent member; but when kindred hearts often sport together, and kindred eyes often meet with kindred glances, kindred throbs will beat, awakening kindred feelings, which some little flaxen haired, clear, blue eyed lassies find truly difficult to obliterate.

Reader, dost thou expect me to give thee in black and white my hero's courtship? Of all the things in the world, the most tame and insipid are lovers' courtships,--it may be the most interesting, animating, soul-stirring, thrilling courtship that ever mortal breathed, but canst thou enter into the feelings and go along with the heart in its gentle outpourings? 'Tis not words, sentences, nor ideas, clothed in the dress of fancy, or robed in imagination's best attire. 'Tis the look, the touch, the action, that constitutes the universal language of love none can misunderstand.

I must take thee my good friend, (for we must be friends who are travelling so cosily together,) and place thine eye at a key hole, where "you shall see what you shall see." Alas poor Tim! I have been watching thy movements; thou evidently knowest not what thou doest,--instead of reading as thou wast wont, thou hast been serving thine apprenticeship to that _manufacturer_ Cupid! Of all the epithets that ever were applied to a heathen god, none can be more appropriate, though I say it who should not, than this epithet bestowed by me upon Cupid.--Cupid a manufacturer? Yes, a manufacturer. Whenever you see a poor fellow sweating over the fire, filing, and stretching, and polishing rings, carving hearts and diamonds, and the like, you may set it down that Cupid is teaching his apprentice the first rudiments of his art,--for he is the master workman who superintends the manufacture of all such invaluable tokens, and teaches the how, and the where, and the when, they are to be distributed and bestowed. You are now seated at that key hole; I have told you what has been Tim's employment, make the best use of your eyes, and tell us what you see. Who ever saw a fellow try on a ring in that way before?--putting the ring upon the fore-finger?--the rogue knows as well as you do, that that little ring will not go over the first joint of that finger, but then it is so pleasant to try, the finger is so soft and white. Trying it on the middle finger?--he knows that the ring will not go over the nail, but that finger is so tapering, how could he avoid it. Had it been you or I, we should have placed it at once on the ring finger, and there would have been an end of the matter,--but look! the fellow is trying it upon the little finger--that finger is so little, and some how or other, so lonely, he feels for it a tender compassion. A little finger look lonely when in company with three fingers and a thumb? Aye,--lonely,--and its little nail is so thin you may see the blood circulating under it, and of all things to see the blood flowing fresh from the heart, so delicately tinged, is----The fellow has slipped the ring on, is gently squeezing the whole hand, and "has raised his wistful eyes to heaven,"--and little Molly has gently tapped him on the cheek with her fan, as much as to say "you rogue."

Get away from the door, my good friend, you have now seen as much as we bargained for: and my dear miss, you are curious to know what conversation passed all the while between Tim and little Mary; I'll tell you: there did not pass one solitary word, but two little hearts were in as much of a flutter as ever was made by a flock of partridges, springing from their cover.

By this time Tim had become grave and sentimental, and oh! if you ever heard music!--morning, noon, and night, there was the most incessant fluting,--fluting,--fluting. It was all of that soft die-away kind, you would have thought that Tim's soul was melting away and softly escaping through his flute. His heart, too, had undergone as thorough a change as that of the silk worm transformed into the fluttering moth. His mind was etherealized: instead of the humdrum, commonplace, prosing thoughts he once indulged in, his imagination now soared aloft,--he was dwelling amid the heights of Parnassus, his soul was drinking in the nectar of poesy and revelling in the ambrosia of fancy. You may talk of the pierian spring as the fount of knowledge; you may invoke the muses from their heavenly habitation, and Apollo and Minerva may attend in their train, but unless Cupid's arrows have drank of the heart's blood, tinging the sources of the mind's impressions, poesy will still be steeped in Lethe's wave, and never spring into life's gay morn. Now, every thought is dressed and ornamented, and oh! the fantastic flights!--oh! the soft mellow pastorals,--the country life, the blue vaulted arch unspotted with a cloud--nature, simple and gay; there she is, sweetly clad all beautiful and fresh--aye, and the loved one!--pearls and gems, and diamonds, and roses, and lilies, and stars, and suns, and firmaments in splendor glowing, and "could the busy bee but taste those lips, he'd quit his hollow domes to revel 'mid the sweets upon that hallowed spot."

As for little Molly, she, too, had undergone a metamorphosis, she who was wont to play so many "tricks before high heaven," who loved to play them off upon poor Tim, better than on all others, had grown so shy, you would have sworn she hated the very sight of him. In the company of others, when Tim was present, she scarcely opened her mouth,--to him, she scarcely ever spoke,--of him--no word of remembrance broke from her lips,--you would have thought he was obliterated from her mind; but more could be read by these two in a single glance of the eye, than volumes could express. As for me, I'd rather have the sensation produced by one of those stolen glances than be made a king. In such a situation, I would not be compelled to talk, by all the racks of the inquisition--silence is delight. But at such a time, to be bored with one of your real clatter, clatter, jabbering, never ending, incessant talkers, is the most horrible purgatory. Poor Tim was just in this situation. Little Molly had a noisy, officious cousin, who, he thought uglier than the veriest hag that ever shrank and shrivelled into stringy nothingness, and yet the girl was comely enough. She had taken it into her head, that her cousin Mary hated the aforesaid Tim, and therefore kindly volunteered to rid her of so troublesome a companion; and in consequence of such sage surmises, never failed when Tim paid a visit, to intrude herself among them;--and oh the clatter!--Tim's heart sank within him--he came not to talk!

My dear young miss, whoever thou art, that seest these lines, let me advise thee as a friend, to take thyself to thine own apartment, and remain in solitude the balance of thy life, rather than interfere in these critical moments; for you may rely upon it that thou art hated, contemned, abhorred and despised to a degree that is truly sinful. Thou art cursed with ten thousand more curses than ever Dr. Slop poured upon the head of luckless Obadiah.

Gentle reader, (for thou must be gentle to have travelled with me so far without wincing, and yet have heard so little,) can you tell me how it is that when a man is in love, however rambling and roving his disposition may have been before, as soon as he is fairly caught, he becomes from that moment confined to one solitary route. Let me explain myself,--for I have been carefully noticing our friend Tim. He and little Molly lived in the same town, but at a considerable distance apart, and yet to whatever part of the town Tim was called, he was as certain to pass by little Molly's house as he was to pass out of his own door. For instance, he would go to the post office, and from the frequency of his visits, you would have supposed he had more correspondents than all the merchants of the place put together, and while the post office was up town, little Molly's was down town, and yet he invariably went down town by little Molly's to get up town to the post office. One might suppose that Tim expected to see little Molly at the windows, but she was not one of your starers, who employ themselves in gazing at the comers and goers, and I'll venture to say, that in six months, Tim never saw her once, and yet go in what direction he might ultimately intend, go down town in the first place he must,--and he experienced more pleasure in passing that house than in eating his breakfast or his dinner.--This is a species of hydrophobia that I will leave you to think on and cure.

These incidents had occurred--these symptoms had been made manifest.--In the mean time two years rolled onwards.--Tim was in his twenty-second year, and little Molly in her eighteenth.

One day as Tim stood ready with his hat in his hand to take his leave after an interview,--it had been a long and hopeless one,--looking wistfully at her, he said energetically and in a voice deep toned--"It is the _last_ time I will ask. If you are in earnest, I go forever!" I listened, but could not hear the reply. There was a pause. Perhaps, nothing was said. I thought I heard a kiss. I may be mistaken, but certain I am, that instead of hearing Tim leave the house, I heard him walk rapidly to the table, and throw down his hat. When I again saw him,--the pensive, musing, meditative Tim was the merriest fellow that ever cracked a bottle.