Part 5

Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The fairest flower that ever bloomed In southern sun or gay savannah.[1] The Inca's blood flows in her veins--[2] The Inca's soul her bright eyes lighten; Child of the sun, like him she reigns, To cheer our hopes, our sorrows brighten. Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The fairest flower that ever bloomed In southern sun or gay savannah.

Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! She hath a way to win all hearts, And bow them to the shrine of Anna! Her mind is radiant with the lore Of ancient and of modern story-- And native wit of richer store Bedecks her with its rainbow glory. Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! She hath a way to charm all hearts, And bow them to the shrine of Anna!

Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The hapless bard who sings her praise, Now worships at the shrine of Anna? Twas such a vision, bright but brief, In early youth his true heart rended, Then left it like a fallen leaf, On life's most rugged thorn suspended. Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The hapless bard who sings her praise Wept tears of blood for such an Anna!

[Footnote 1: "The gayest scene in nature is a southern savannah, enamelled with its rich variety of flowers."--_Humboldt_.]

[Footnote 2: "The Incas claim their descent from the sun."--_Las Casas_.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BEAUTY WITHOUT LOVELINESS.

He looked on the chiselled _form_ and _face_, And the roseate blush beguiling, And the arch of the eye-brow's pencilled trace, And the lip in moisture smiling:

He looked on the raven _curls_ that fell O'er the _brow_ of Parian whiteness, And the _silken lash_ that softened the spell Of the _eye_ that swam in brightness:

He looked on the _slender hand_ that shone, Where the sparkle of gems abounded, Like the star of eve on her vesper throne, By the pearls of the sky surrounded:

He looked on the _arm_, as in floating grace, It waved o'er the chords entrancing, And the feathery _foot_, as it marked each trace Of the melody in dancing.

He looked on all these, while links of gold With the silken chain were blended; And yet in his bosom calm and cold, No wave of the soul ascended.

No rapture glowed in his tranquil gaze, The tremulous thought revealing; He looked for the light of soul in the face, And saw not a ray o'er it stealing.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

HAPPY LOVE.

The Nightingale sings to the midnight air, All darkling and alone: And the Lover's lute, mid the gloom of despair, Gives forth its sweetest tone.

But the Lark springs up with the morn's first blush, And mounts the clouds above; As he sings to his mate, in the hawthorn bush, The tale of his happy love.

But hark, that note from the clustering shade! It has reached his listening ear; And, with pinions closed, to her leafy bed, He comes, like a falling star.

O! happy Love! O happy pair! O for that tuneful art! That I might breathe in my Lucy's ear The voice of a happy heart.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

SORROWS OF LOVE.

TO A BEAUTIFUL GIRL ON SEPARATION.

Oh! weep not tho' we're bid to part, Since time nor distance e'er can sever The links that bind my changeless heart, To thy angelic form forever.

As summer clouds that hide the sun, When once removed restore him brighter; This night of woe as soon as done, Will make our love-day morn the lighter.

Affliction now our hearts has proved, And shown our passion's depth more clearly; In joy we might have known we loved, But grief has taught us, oh! how dearly.

The foregoing was written by a gentleman of fine genius, and is published without the author's knowledge.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

EXTEMPORAL LINES.

On hearing Mr. Wickham's Speech at the Bar of the House of Delegates, on the 6th instant.

When Wickham stood up at the bar of the House, And every one there was as still as a mouse, I trembled myself, (to acknowledge the truth,) Lest his age should forget the fine feats of his youth; And I thought that his Horace had warned him in vain, "Release the old racer in time from the rein, Lest he falter at length in a laughable pace, And finish his course in diverting disgrace." But soon, very soon, all my fears were relieved, And hopes took their places that were not deceived; For I saw that his motions were sprightly and strong, And, spite of his weights, he went gaily along, Till, safe at the goal, pleasure broke from my lips, And I cried out delighted, "hurrah for Eclipse!"[1]

_January, 1835_.

[Footnote 1: Solve senescentem maturè sanus equum, ne Peccet ad extremum ridendus, et ilia ducat. _Hor. Epist. Lib. i. 1._]

MRS. WOOD'S MANUSCRIPT POEMS.

The pious and excellent Mrs. JEAN WOOD, who died in this city some years since, was the relict of General James Wood, a distinguished officer of the revolution, and afterwards Governor of Virginia. The qualities for which she was remarkable, were familiarly known to a very large circle of friends, by whom, at least such as survive her, her memory is still held dear. She was indeed in the justest sense, a mother in Israel,--a lady of shining christian benevolence, whose kindly feelings towards her race did not consist in mere sentiment only,--but were evinced in a life of active, useful, and unostentatious charities and labors of love. Her piety moreover, though profound and ardent, was free from austerity; and there was a grace and cheerfulness in her manner and conversation, which won upon all of every age and condition who approached her. Well known as she was however, and universally respected for her virtues, there were but few comparatively who were apprised of her varied endowments or who knew that her practical good sense and experienced judgment were united to the lighter attractions and more ornamental graces of the intellectual character. Literature was to her the solace which refreshed the intervals in her works of goodness; it furnished that balmy repose to the spirit,--which it often needs amidst the conflicts and agitations of human life, even in its most favored condition. The proud, the selfish and avaricious, or the gay and luxurious, may each indulge in his own enjoyment or follow his own delusive phantom,--but next to the consciousness of doing good, there is no earthly happiness so pure and unalloyed as that which springs from the silent communion with our own spirits, or with the marvellous and multiform external objects which surround us. "There is a pleasure in poetic pains which only poets know." There is an exalted sense of enjoyment in contemplating all that is beautiful and good in the moral and physical world, and this indeed constitutes the empire of poetry in its more general and unrestricted sense. We do not claim for Mrs. Wood very extraordinary powers in this enchanting department of literary effort,--for how few of the thousands who have ever essayed to climb the hill of Parnassus have reached its highest pinnacle; and on the contrary how many have been content to tune their unambitious lays in humble seclusion--without courting or even desiring renown. Mrs. Wood wrote neither for fame nor the public eye, and it is this circumstance alone which will impart an additional interest to the natural and unstudied effusions of her muse. Her numerous friends and relatives will at least experience a melancholy pleasure, in tracing in these _memorolabilia_ of their deceased friend, some of those qualities of mind and heart, which rendered her in life an object of respect and love,--and in death,--of veneration and regret.

The first poem we have selected, entitled "Retrospection," appears to have been written in 1809--when a severe illness threatened the life of her husband. In the frame of mind natural under such circumstances, she recalls the principal sorrows of her life, and among them there was none more poignant than the loss of an only child, a daughter of eighteen years old. The closing lines will indicate the source to which she was accustomed to look in the season of human affliction.

RETROSPECTION.

Why should mysterious Heaven bestow A warm and feeling heart-- Yet doom it naught but pain to know, And rankle in its smart?

That it might agonize and bleed At every suffering pore, The soft affections why decreed To centre in its core?

The tender ties my heart has proved That heart has held most dear, And those most dearly, fondly loved, Have cost the bitterest tear!

A tender parent's weeping nurse My early youth I pass'd; And Heaven did but those tears disperse To bid them flow more fast:

For rich in worth, a youth appear'd-- I gave my virgin heart; But Hymen scarce our vows endeared Ere we were doomed to part:

He, through war's ravaged fields to roam Eight sad revolving years-- I, droop'd, a widow'd wife at home, In unavailing tears: But ah! the pang was yet to feel, (The worst the heart can know,) The pang no earthly power can heal, The climax of all woe!

To me a cherub fair was given, I placed it next my heart; It seemed the choicest gift of Heaven-- My bosom's dearest part: While yet I mark'd each opening charm That graced its baby brow, Disease approach'd, in direful form, To lay each promise low.

And oh! how worse than death to see The ruins of a mind, Which, in its dawning, seem'd to be For better hopes design'd; To watch with anxious hopes and fears The daily deep'ning gloom, Till eighteen sad and suffering years Had laid her in the tomb.

Though keen the parting pang I felt, And did my child deplore; Yet soon in gratitude I knelt-- _Her_ sufferings were no more. My mind's composure once regain'd, A competence still ours; My loved companion, too, remain'd To cheer my lonely hours:

Fondly I hoped life's evening shade Might yet in peace descend, And grief no more my heart invade Till closing life should end.

But now alas! the transient calm Flits fast and far away-- The hope that o'er my fancy swam, And soothed my wasting day; For dire disease again appears To break the mild serene; Again commands my streaming tears, And clouds our closing scene!

Why, then, my God! thus closely twine Around this bursting heart, Those fond affections which are mine, Such misery to impart! Dare I, presumptuous, seek to know What mocks our mortal sight; Enough for me, thou will'st it so-- It, therefore, must be right.

The piece which follows, our readers will agree with us, is not only very agreeable verse, but what is still better, is replete with pure moral sentiment.

THE CAPTIVE BIRD.

Say, little caged flutterer, say, Why mournful waves thy drooping wing? Why silent sit, the live-long day? Nor Vespers chaunt, nor Matins sing.

When first a captive thou wert made And in thy wiry dwelling swung, Suspended in the leafy shade Or sunny door, you gaily sung.

My careful hand supplied thee store Of ripest berries from the hill; Thy cup replenished, strewed thy floor With glittering gravel from the rill.

Beneath the same luxuriant vine, The same kind hand supplies thy fare; The sun's first cheering rays are thine, Yet thou art sad and silent there.

Ah! little captive, couldst thou see What passes in this wayward breast, Thou'dst ask, perhaps, the same of me, And why vain wishes break my rest.

Thou'dst ask me, why this quiet shade Which late a paradise I deem'd, Though still in verdant sweets array'd, A melancholy prison seemed?

And bid me mind, each passing day That wholesome viands crown'd my board, That flowers and fruits and sunshine gay For me, too, vernal sweets afford.

Nay, more,--that liberty is mine And lends a ray to every joy-- While sad captivity is thine, Mingling with all its sad alloy.

Thou "still small voice" that will be heard, Whose whispers thrill the inmost soul! Reproving friend--beloved and feared-- Conscience, this is thy mild control!

Oft hast thou urged this conscious truth, When gloomy tears have fill'd mine eye; Or discontent, with brow unsmooth, Was fain to force th' unwilling sigh.

'Tis thy reproving voice I hear, When from the poor and lowly cot Content and cheerfulness appear, Though mark'd by penury their lot.

Then shall I bear a pining heart-- While friendship, health, and peace combine Life's dearest comforts to impart-- Ah! shall a thankless heart be mine!

No sure--content's too cold a name For what my bosom ought to feel; Thus favored, gratitude's sweet claim With thanks unceasing bids me kneel:

Bids me, thus lowly bending, vow Before the awful throne of Heaven-- Children of want, to share with you The good its gracious power has given.

In the lines which we next select, it will be perceived that to minds of delicate fibre and poetic temperament,--the most familiar objects in nature will often suggest mournful images and recollections. A flower will awaken affecting reminiscences of some long lost and beloved object.

THE BELLE DU JOUR, OR CONVOLVULUS MINOR.

Sweet floret! beauty of a day, And transient as thou'rt sweet; Scarce opening to the morning ray Ere shrinking from its heat:

Noon faded sees each early charm, Thy blue eye closed in death; And evening's breeze, thy wasted form Wafts lightly o'er the heath.

While thus, sweet child of summer skies, I see thee bloom and die; What tender recollections rise To prompt the pensive sigh:

For once in this lone bosom grew As fair, as sweet a flower, That smiled and budded forth like you In morn's propitious hour;

But ah! while joy and hope were new And promised bliss secure; Like you, it drooping faded too-- And sunk to bloom no more.

Oft as I through the twilight gloom A wandering mourner stray; Pale shadowy tenant of the tomb, She seems to cross my way:

For every object, every scene Does my lost love recall, From cheerful morning's rising beam To mournful evening's fall.

Our readers must not be induced to cast aside the following poem, from its length. It is full of genuine feeling and pious sentiment.

EVENTIDE.

[Written in a dejected and visionary state of mind.]

Sweet beams the cheerful morn o'er happy hearts, And every smiling scene new bliss imparts; Each gay unfolding bud, each new born flower Exhaling odors, owns the sun's warm power; The new-waked birds their notes of gladness raise, The trembling dew-drop rainbow tints displays, In pendant beauty gems the lofty bough, Or glitters in the velvet turf below.

On active wing abroad, the industrious bees Their busy hum mix with the passing breeze, The light breeze curls the silver-bosom'd flood, Or freshening whispers through the waving wood; The sun, now mounting, gilds the eastern skies, Bright'ning the landscape with its glowing dyes-- Gay beauty smiles along each field and grove-- Congenial smiles--for youth, for joy, and love.

But when the soul, long since, has ceased to prove The tender fallacies of youthful love-- And soberer joys, no more, the way adorn, The sad heart, sick'ning, turns from sprightly morn-- Turns, pensive eve, to seek thy milder charms, And dewy haunts, which no gay sunbeam warms.

When closing day shuts o'er its busy cares, And onward stealing, twilight meek appears, Drowns in obscurity the distant scene, And casts a softening charm o'er all between-- 'Tis then the sad, the lacerated mind, Does in thy gentle gloom a soother find-- Sighs with less pain beneath its load of cares, And mourns its sorrows with relieving tears.

Disrobed of gayer tint and gaudy hue, Sweet Eventide! thy objects meet the view; In modest russet clothed each shrub and flower, Shades ever sacred to thy silent hour-- Shades how congenial! every heart must find, Which long, long suffering, feels, but is resign'd. So we oft see in life's bright morn display'd, A youthful beauty gorgeously arrayed! Unbent by care, her form erect she bears, Bright are her eyes, unsullied yet by tears; By thought unclouded her fair polish'd brow, Nor does her buoyant heart a sorrow know: Gay as the lark's first carol is her song, As with light agile step she moves along; Each young unwary heart to love she warms, A sparkling wonder, and a blaze of charms!

But when this dazzling radiance is o'er And morn's bright beauties fade to bloom no more; When noontide clouds for evening showers prepare, And the gay crowd no longer hail her fair-- Then, if beneath this form so heavenly bright Some latent virtues rest--obscured from sight, (By suffering taught its own intrinsic worth) The struggling heart first learns to call them forth: Taught by her own to feel another's woes, The sweets of Heaven-born charity she knows; While sympathetic tears unbidden flow, And gentle pity does its balm bestow. Now softened every gaudy trait is seen To milder russet changed her vivid green; Her morning splendors caught the young and gay, But the meek mourner loves her eventide ray.

Ah! hour of twilight russet--thou art past-- And hope, sweet star of eve! has shone its last-- Nor can a ray of cheering light impart Where midnight darkness ever wraps the heart.

At thy soft silent hour, in pensive mood, Sweet eventide, I love to seek the wood; And as I, musing, wind my devious walk, With visionary forms hold fancied talk; Forms that the cold embrace of death enfolds, But which my soul in fond remembrance holds, Down the lone walk, or midst the cluster'd trees, I hear a well known voice in every breeze-- The passing object, or the shadowy green Through their tall bolls in dim perspective seen, Soft flitting forms present to fancy's eye, That seem to glide with gentle greetings by.

Hail gentle spirits! Shades of friends revered-- By tender recollections now endeared; And you, my earliest loss, parental pair-- Though o'er your tombs the oft revolving year Has shed its winters frost and vernal dew, Still faithful memory fondly turns to you-- For often in idea still are seen Your silver locks, and venerable mien. If conscience tells me I have err'd in aught, Your cold reproving frown straight strikes my thought; But if my heart acquits me of all guile, It feels the joy of your approving smile. A brother here, the worthiest of mankind-- Oft I recall--with pain and pleasure joined; Two sisters--one advanced in matron grace, Strong sense and feeling blended in her face; Plain worth and warm affections fill'd her heart, And to each action did their hue impart: Benevolence and truth still led her way And held their tenor through each well spent day: The other, just a bride, in youthful charms, With grace and beauty fill'd her husband's arms-- When Heaven, aware a mind so finely wrought, So mild, so gentle, so refined in thought, With erring mortals peace could never know, Hasted to call her from a scene of woe; And early placed her in those blest abodes Where care no more afflicts, nor grief corrodes. Sure, thou Supreme! of all thy works, the part Most form'd for woe, is the soft female heart; Her breast, the seat of innocence and love, Was doom'd, alas! composure ne'er to prove-- What others felt, with but a passing sigh, Kept the meek tear forever in her eye; The varying blush that mental suffering speaks In quick suffusion on her lovely cheeks-- Ah gentle Anna! leave thy Heaven awhile, Greet a lone sister with one tearful smile.

Aerial music oft I seem to hear In gentle breathings, strike my listening ear-- Full and melodious sounds, in swelling strains, Then soothing soft, each dying note complains; High o'er my head in trembling cadence plays, Or lightly passes on the sighing breeze-- The ambient air a balmy fragrance fills, And the charm'd sense each earth-born sorrow stills; A lambent light pervades the dewy scene, Illumes each branch and brightens o'er the green. Sweet powers of Fancy! can this work be thine, Or are these sounds, these forms, indeed, divine? For see, where lightly borne on seraph wing, An angel band their hallelujahs sing-- Its course, a form etherial this way bends, Stooping to earth, and at my feet descends!

Oh, beauteous shade of what was once my child! Wept when I wept, and smiled but as I smiled; Phantom of what long filled this vacant heart, That still would claim thee as its dearest part-- That still must hold thy cherish'd memory dear, And greet thy much loved image with a tear. In thy translated spirit sure I trace Each mortal beauty of thy gentle face; Shaded by silken curls of auburn hue, Meet thy soft eyes of mild etherial blue; Their look of patient innocence still feel Touch my heart's finest nerve, with tender thrill, See them in silent fondness fix'd on mine, See thee for my maternal kiss incline-- With offer'd lip and fond extended arms, While love ineffable my bleeding bosom warms!

Oh vision fair, of many an airy dream! Of all my youthful hopes the darling theme; Wreck of an anxious mother's early cares, Loved object of her late regrets and tears-- Why, beauteous messenger, why hither sent, On what mild purpose is thy errand bent? For thou couldst only leave the blest above On errands mild, and purposes of love. Comest thou to warn me from this life of pain? To bid me hope we soon shall meet again? Sure in thy dulcet voice I hear thee say, "Come, poor lone mourner, come to peace away:" Welcome the sounds, for wretched must I be While weary life divides my soul from thee. Ah, no! that softly sorrowing look declares Thou comest to chide my impious grief and tears-- Grief, that would thee recall to pain and woe, Tears, that alone from selfish motives flow: To bid me sink on an adoring knee And thank my God, whose mercy shelter'd thee! Who, while he seem'd, in each severe command, To press me with a harsh chastising hand, Prepared the balm that now my heartfelt woes And anguished bosom, can alone compose; And bad me know, in the conviction blest, Though here thy suffering body knew no rest-- That thy pure soul, as spotless as 'twas given, By his creating hand has wing'd its way to Heaven.

With sad solicitude 'twas mine to watch, In silent woe, my angel's midnight couch, Guide her uncertain steps the live-long day, Or pine in trembling terrors when away-- To see the impending stroke I could not ward, And mourn the sufferer that no love could guard; But this blest certainty my heart repays, And bids it throb with gratitude and praise. Yet pardon, Lord! my bosom's sorrowing swell, When on past scenes I yet too fondly dwell; And you who ne'er have felt the cruel pang, Who still can o'er your cherish'd darlings hang; Who have not learn'd how hard it is to part, And bear about a sad bereaved heart-- Or not possessing, ne'er conceive the charm With which maternal love the heart can warm-- With kind indulgence hear pale sorrow's moan, Nor lightly judge the woes you have not known.