Part 15

Upon those dark, bright eyes of thine, That soft, like moonlit waters, beam, I love to gaze, and, as they shine, Of those ethereal beings dream, That oft, on us, have smiled, in sleep, Then quickly flown, and made us weep, That e'er to man, so much of heaven Should just be shown,--ah! never given!

How soft the rose upon thy cheek, Blent with the lily's milder hue, Whose mingling tints of beauty speak A sinless spirit--calm and true!-- The smile, that wreathes thy rosy lip, Is young affection's radiant token-- Beauty and Truth in fellowship!-- The symbol of a heart unbroken; Within thy bosom, holy thought, As in a temple, hath its shrine, Refulgent with a glory caught From the pure presence of thy mind, Whose lustre flings a hallowing ray, Around thee, calm as orient day!

Oh! may thy life be ever bright, As aught thine early dreams have framed, And not a shadow dim its light, Till heaven, in mercy, shall have claim'd Thee, as a being fit for naught That earth can boast, all sorrow-fraught As are its brightest visions. May Thy life be one long dream of love, Unbroken 'til the final day, When heaven shall waft thy soul above, And crown thee, as an angel _there_, Who wast indeed an angel _here!_

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES IN AN ALBUM.

As sets the sun upon the wave, At twilight, when the day is done, Casting a glory round his grave, That lingers, though his race be run;-- A glory, that attracts the gaze Of many a bright, uplifted eye, Leading the spirit, where his rays Blend with the quiet, azure sky, Till evening's star, with diamond beam, Mirrors his last effulgent gleam;--

So I would now, upon this page, At parting, _this_ memorial leave, O'er which, perhaps, in after age, Some pensive eye may kindly grieve, And mourn the loss of him, who though His life was all unknown to fame, Left still behind a feeble glow, Hallowing, in friendship's sky, his name,-- A light, that, like a star, will beam, Long, long, he trusts, in memory's dream!

* * * * *

And now my wish for happiness To thee, I mingle with mine own,-- A wish--a _prayer_, that heaven may bless, And keep thee, kind and gentle one, Free from all sorrow, care and strife,-- A being far too pure and bright To wander 'mid the storms of life, That dim affection's vestal light,-- A seraph form'd like those above, For only joy, and peace, and love!

I need not tell thee, time can ne'er Thy name from memory's tablet blot, For thou art to my heart too dear, To wrong its worship, by the thought; No! though the world may sorrow bring, And bear thee far away from me, It from remembrance ne'er can wring The thoughts, that aye will turn to thee, As Chaldea's maiden to the star, She worships in its sphere afar!

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

PARTING.

Farewell!--my hand is trembling yet, With the last pressure of thine own; Oh! could my troubled heart forget The sadness, 'round that parting thrown,-- Could memory lose the imaged smile, Bright sparkling through thy gushing tears, Which played upon thy cheek, the while Hope struggled with her prophet fears, That love and bliss no more would throw Their beams around us, as of erst, Or happiness, with seraph glow, Upon our rapturous _meetings_ burst,-- I then might lose a sorrowing thought, But one, with deep affection fraught!

Yet go!--I would not keep thee here, When "it is best to be away,"-- Go, seek thy distant home, and ne'er Let memory 'round these visions stray, When happiness, and love and joy, Unto our mingling hearts were given;-- Oh! go, and ne'er may pain annoy, Or sorrow dim thine eye's blue heaven, But peace and pure affection hold Their vigils 'round thine angel way, And blessedness thy form enfold, And keep thee, 'til "the perfect day," When heaven shall join the hearts of those, Who here have loved, through countless woes!

Go!--and I will not ask, or give A sigh,--a tear,--a single token, To prove our cherished love will live, Forever true, in faith unbroken;-- Though wayward fate has severed far Our fortunes, by a cruel lot, Yet love will live, with being's star, And never,--never be forgot;-- God's blessings on thee!--if the smile Of heaven e'er lights a seraph's path,-- Protecting it from blight the while It wanders here, 'mid sin and wrath,-- _Its_ smiles upon _thy_ path shall beam, And light it, like an Eden dream!

A. B. M.

_Tuscaloosa, Alabama_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES SUGGESTED ON VIEWING THE RUINS AT JAMESTOWN.

Monuments of other years, on ye I gaze As yonder sun sheds forth its dying rays; And as I read these marbles, reared to tell Who lived beloved, and much lamented fell; A feeling sad comes o'er my soul, and then My fancy brings their tenants back again. Not these alone, but those whose footsteps trod The soil before, and worshipp'd nature's god Free from scholastic trammel, and adored Him thro' his works, without the zealot's sword To force belief. Where are ye now? Bright star That shed'st thy soft light thro' the skies afar, Art thou the same that didst thy pale beams shed O'er the last broken-hearted Indian's bed? When death was glazing fast his eagle eye, Say, didst thou gleam from yonder deep blue sky O'er his dim vision, and point out the way Thro' death's dark vestibule to endless day?-- How did he die? With curses loud and deep (Startling the panther from his troubled sleep,) All wildly bursting from his soul for those Who came as friends, but--proved the worst of foes? Say, did he breathe his untamed spirit out, With the stern warrior's wild unearthly shout Quiv'ring along his lip, all proudly curled, Which seem'd to say, "defiance to the world?" Or was the lion quiet in his heart? And did a gush from feeling's fountain, start Adown his swarthy cheek, when o'er his soul Came tender feelings he could not control. Thoughts of the past perhaps; his aged sire; His mother bending o'er the wigwam's fire; His brothers, sisters, and the joyous chase; The stream he used to lave in oft, to brace His manly sinews; and perchance the maid, With whom in brighter days he oft had strayed Mid the hoar forest's over spreading shade. Came there a group past mem'ry's straining eye To teach the _brave_ how hard it was to die? What boots it now to know? Yet fancy warms With strange imaginings, and the gaunt forms Of forest heroes pass her eye before, As a strange feeling steals the spirit o'er. Is that Apollo[1] with his polish'd bow And quiver--with rich locks that freely flow Adown his neck of graceful form--whose eye Seems like some bright orb beaming from the sky? O! shade of Powhatan! I would not dare To breathe one word upon this balmy air To make thee sad--for as I look around, I _feel_ this mournful spot is sacred ground! If thou dost mark my footsteps, where I tread Unthinking, o'er those warrior's mounds, who bled Contending bravely for their own green hills, Their sunny fountains and their gushing rills, Their fields, their woods, their partners and their sons, This noble stream which to the ocean runs,-- Shade of the mighty Werowance[2] forgive! No trifling thoughts within this bosom live; No throb unhallowed thrills my bosom here, As o'er these mounds I drop a mournful tear. But day declines; the hosts of heaven ride All brightly--while the moon, pale as a bride When at the altar her young vows are given, Smiles sweetly from her altitude in heaven.

The red man and the white, together sleep That dreamless slumber, and the waves' hoarse sweep Awakes them not--and I a wandering boy, Will not with my sad song their manes annoy.

I drop a parting tear, thou sacred pile, To thy strewn columns and thy moss grown aisle; Thy broken pavement, and thy ruined arch,-- How rapid Time, thy desolating march!

Farewell! farewell! thou sacred, solemn spot; What I have felt shall not be soon forgot: Rest, rest, ye slumberers! would that I could sleep; Your's is all calm, but _I_ must live to weep.

SYLVANUS.

_August, 1834_.

[Footnote 1: It is said of West, the celebrated painter, that on being shown an Apollo, he exclaimed, "My God, how much like a young _Mohawk warrior_."]

[Footnote 2: Indian term for a great man.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ODE WRITTEN ON A FINE NIGHT AT SEA.

How softly sweet this zephyr night! To Venus sends her brilliant light! And Heav'n's inhabitants unite Each kindly beam, To put fell darkness' train to flight, With gentle gleam.

The vessel's sides the waters wake, And waveless as the bounded lake, A solemn slumber seem to take Extending wide;-- Along the ship they sparkling break And gem the tide.

Midst such a scene, no thoughts can find An entrance in the pensive mind, But such as virtue has refined, The past must smile-- And flatt'ring fancy will be kind, And hope beguile.

Blest silence! solitary friend-- My thoughts with thee to _home_ I send; And _there_ absorbed my sorrows end-- In vain I roam-- As blossoms to the day-star tend, So I to home.

Not more I owe that glorious ray That beams the blessing of the day; Not more my gratitude I pay For air and light-- Than for that Home now far away-- First, best delight.

A little while, and that blest spot, From mem'ry shall raze each blot, And all my wand'rings there forgot, At last I'll rest-- No sorrow shall disturb the cot So loved, so blest.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

AUTUMN WOODS.

A deep ton'd requiem's in the sigh Of the moaning blast, as it hurries by Yon fading forest; Upon its rushing wings is borne A voice sad as the anthem's tone Above the dead: It is the wild wind's hymn of death, Which pours in plaintive strains its breath O'er autumn woods; When hurl'd to earth by the fitful storm, Some frail leaf's wan and wither'd form Sinks to its tomb. Sad relics of the dying year; Thy springtide glories now are sear, And all departed: Where now's thy fairy robe of spring, The sunbeam and the zephyr's wing Once wove for thee? Say, where's that gush of melody Thy sylvan minstrels pour'd for thee In thy summer bowers? Or where's the Æolian song thou wouldst wake When some sporting zephyr's breath would shake Thy rustling leaves? Thy robe--thy song have past away, And the funeral pall and the funeral lay Alone are thine! How oft when summer's azure sky Was bath'd in the golden, gorgeous dye Of sunset's glow, I've lov'd to wander through thy bright And verdant bowers, gilt with light Of parting day; To list to the soft, faint melody Of thy vesper hymn, as it floated by On the passing breeze-- Or view, when on the stream's bright sheen Was pictured all thy fairy scene In mimic art;-- How calm that stream, in its slumber seeming, Of thee and all thy pageant dreaming Reflected there. But thro' thy shades 'twas not alone I stray'd. With me there wander'd one Of gentler mould, Around whose seraph form awakening, Young beauty's morning light was breaking In roseate beam-- And round whose stainless brow fond Love, And Hope and Joy a wreath had wove Of freshest bloom. Thou sad memento of the tomb! Say, shall that wreath, with its sunny bloom, E'er fade like thee? Shall Time's chill mildew on it light, Or sorrow breathe its _autumn_ blight Upon its flowers? A voice is in each falling leaf Which says, "earth's brightest joys are brief"-- _Thus fade its hopes!_ Then mid that wreath of fading flowers Fond pleasure weaves, to deck her bowers, Oh! twine that flower Whose fadeless hue, whose springtide bloom Immortal lives, beyond the tomb-- Bright SHARON'S ROSE.

H.

We extract the following sprightly effusion from the _North American Magazine_, published in Philadelphia. It bears a strong resemblance to the grace and freedom, and _piquancy_ which distinguish the muse of Halleck, one of the most highly gifted poets in America. We hope our fair readers, however, will not suppose that the author's satire is adapted to our meridian. The BEAUTIES of our southern clime, are too generous and disinterested to be won by the sordid allurements of splendid edifices, bank shares and gold eagles!--at least we hope so, and should be sorry to find ourselves mistaken.

THE DECLARATION.

The lady sat within her bower, Where trellissed vines hung o'er her, With flashing eye and burning cheek, Down knelt her fond adorer; He took her soft white hand, and in Her bright eye fondly gazing, Sought for a look, to show that he An equal flame was raising; Yet still her eyes were turned away, And as his heart waxed bolder, And he devoured her lily hand, The lady's look grew colder.

And then he swore by all the stars, That in the sky were shining-- By all the verdant vines that o'er Her gentle bower were twining-- By mountains, valleys, seas and streams, And by the moon above her, And everything therein that e'er Sophi or saints discover-- He never could know peace again On earth, till he had won her; Yet still she answered not the look Of love he cast upon her.

And then he swore, at her command, To show his love, he would do What never mortals did before, And none but lovers could do, That he would climb up to the moon, Or swim the ocean over-- Would dine one day at Sandy Hook, And sup next night at Dover; Then jump from thence to London, and Alight on St. Paul's steeple-- Then pull the Premier's nose, and make O'Connell damn the people.

Or that he would put armour on, And, like a knight of yore, he Would fight with giants, castles scale, And gain immortal glory. Then go and build a kingdom up, And be a mighty winner; Bowstring the Sultan Mahmoud--and His TURKEY eat for dinner. Then follow Lander's dismal track, And on the Niger's banks An Empire of the Darkies found, And merit Tappan's thanks!

If HARDER tasks she did demand, He would reform the nation, Make talent, honesty, and worth, Essentials to high station-- Make politicians tell the truth, Give consciences to brokers, And put upon the temperance list An army of old soakers-- Make lawyers "keep the people's peace," Physicians kill them CHEAPER-- A cloud was on the lady's brow, Which, as he spoke, grew deeper.

He swore she had the brightest eyes, That ever look'd on mortal; And that their light was like the rays That stream from Heaven's own portal; That by her cheek, the opening rose Would look but dim and faded; And darker than the raven's wing, The hair her fair brow shaded; That Venus by her side would look A common country dowdy;-- The lady blushed and smiled, and then Her brow again grew cloudy.

Up sprung the lover then, and said, "Will you be Mrs. Popkins-- Miss Julia Jane Amelia Ann Matilda Polly Hopkins? I have a house four stories high-- We'll live in splendid style, and A handsome countryseat upon Lake George's sweetest island-- Ten thousand eagles in the mint, Bankshares, untold, percented"-- The lady bent her cheek to his, Her gentle heart relented!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FROM MY SCRAP BOOK.

You ask me B----ty, why I mourn, Yet dry'st the tearful eye? You ask me why I look with scorn, And check the heaving sigh? Time was, when I could carol forth, To tune of lively glee; But dark despair has left no hope-- Nor sigh--nor tear--for me. Like me--perchance some wayward sprite, Might dazzling lead astray; Then leave you on the giddy height, To perish far away: Take heed while yet you have the choice, Avoid the Syren's way; Nor listen to the artful voice, Which calls--but to betray; For sigh from him that is deceived, Or tear from eye that once believed, Is sought in vain--tho' fill'd with grief, Nor sigh nor tear can bring relief; 'Tis _time_ alone can steel the heart, And foil the Syren's pointed dart.

POWHATAN.

_Petersburg, Dec. 19, 1834_.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE MECHANICIAN AND UNCLE SIMON.