Chapter XXIII: Front Matter (23)

They say that the constitution of our habits is such, that, by degrees, we can become reconciled to anything, but I am not yet satisfied with my name. I still persist in writing it L. Rust. I have seen a good deal of human nature; and, I must think, notwithstanding Shakspeare's opinion, that there is something in a name. Indeed, a man's name tinges his whole character. If it is a good one, he may sign even a mortgage deed with a light heart; and, if he writes a neat hand, he will rise from the desk a happy man. His flowing autograph, and more flowing name, make even poverty tolerable. But your Nimris, and Obadiahs! that which, to some men, is the pleasantest thing in existence--the seeing their names in print, is to them, utter and hopeless agony. And then their officious friends are eternally superscribing their letters with the name written out in full. There is one member of Congress, who, throughout the whole session, most perseveringly franks his dull speeches to Lazarus Rust, esq. One would think L. Rust was sufficiently definite, and it certainly has the advantage in point of euphony. I wish he was in Heaven. I know of no damper to ambition like a bad name. I would not immortalize myself if I could. Lazarus Rust, indeed,--that would look well inscribed on a monument! I say with Emmett, "Let no man write my epitaph." It would perhaps run thus:

"Here lies the body of Lazarus Rust
With what a horrible name the poor fellow was _cust_."

No--not for me is the laurel wreath of immortality. When I die, let me be forgotten. If there is any truth in the doctrine of transmigration, I may yet take my chance. "I bide my time."

After all, I sometimes endeavor to persuade myself that it is a mere matter of taste. We have no reason to suppose that Lazarus was the worst name in the Hebrew genealogy. It must be confessed, however, that there are some disagreeable associations connected with it, aside from its sound; and, to speak the plain truth, it is a most disgusting appellation, fit only for a monkey. Yet I am compelled to bear it about with me--a thorn in the flesh, from which I cannot escape; it adheres to me like the poisoned tunic of Nessus. I would appeal to the Massachusetts Legislature, but my friends have a decided partiality for Lazarus, and would never know me by any other name. So, as Lazarus I have lived, Lazarus will I die.

I have redeemed my father's error, in naming my own children; I cannot, 'tis true, rub off the Rust: but, for the matter of Christian names, I defy the Directory to furnish a more princely list. When my eldest son was born, I vowed he should never be ashamed of his name, so I called him Henry Arthur Augustus George Bellville--so far, so good--it breaks my heart to add--Rust. The sly rogue has since improved his cognomen, by spelling it with a final e--thus: Henry A. A. G. B. Ruste--how it takes off the romance to add--eldest son of Lazarus Rust, esq.!

Finally, as I have the misfortune, like my namesake of old, to be of that class of mortals, denominated "poor devils," I can say, with the utmost sincerity, "who steals _my_ purse, steals trash; and he who filches from me my good name," has decidedly the worst of the bargain.

J. D.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

The following lines are from the pen of Dr. _J. R. Drake_. Sacred be his memory! A warmer patriot never breathed. The piece was written at the time of the invasion, and but a few days previous to the brilliant victory of the eighth of January. It is addressed to the defenders of New Orleans.

Hail! sons of gen'rous valor!
Who now embattled stand,
To wield the brand of strife and blood,
For freedom and the land;
And hail to him your laurel'd chief!
Around whose trophied name,
A nation's gratitude has twin'd,
The wreath of deathless fame.

Now round that gallant leader,
Your iron phalanx form;
And throw, like ocean's barrier rocks,
Your bosoms to the storm--
Though wild as ocean's waves it rolls,
Its fury shall be low--
For justice guides the warrior's steel,
And vengeance strikes the blow.

High o'er the gleaming columns
The banner'd star appears;
And proud, amid the martial band,
His crest the Eagle rears--
As long as patriot valor's arm
Shall win the battle's prize,
That star shall beam triumphantly--
That Eagle seek the skies.

Then on! ye daring spirits!
To danger's tumults now!
The bowl is fill'd, and wreath'd the crown,
To grace the victor's brow;
And they who for their country die,
Shall fill an honored grave;
For glory lights the soldier's tomb,
And beauty weeps the brave.

{172}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

VALEDICTORY IN JULY 1829,

_At the final breaking up of the ---- School, in consequence of the ill health of Mrs. ----, the Principal, after it had continued for eight years._

Among the numerous analogies, my young friends, which have been traced between the body and the mind, there is not one that requires more of our attention than the necessity of constantly supplying each with its appropriate food, if we would keep both in sound, vigorous health. Although the nutriment of the first be altogether material, and that of the second spiritual, yet the same want of daily supply is equally obvious in regard to the improvement and preservation of mental as well as bodily qualities. Without our daily bread we must all in some short time sicken and die; without some daily intellectual repasts, the soul must soon become diseased and perish. It is true that in each case the food may be much and often beneficially diversified--although there are some standard articles that cannot be dispensed with on any occasion without inconvenience, if not actual injury. Such for example are bread for the body and some moral aliment for the mind. Upon this principle it is that I have always deemed it essential, every time I have addressed you, to mingle some moral instruction with every thing I have said, since it is _this_ which constitutes the true leaven of the bread of life--and _this_ it is which will always prove an acceptable part of their mental food, to all whose appetites and tastes have not been depraved by mental condiments, which stimulate and gratify the passions at the expense of the soul.

An irresistible inducement on the present occasion to pursue towards you the course to which I have so long been prompted both by principle and habit, is, that _this_ is certainly the last opportunity I shall ever have of addressing you as pupils. The connexion of teachers and scholars which has subsisted for so many years between yourselves and my family, is about to be dissolved forever. But this circumstance has greatly augmented my solicitude to render the last admonitions I shall ever give you in my character of adviser, of some permanent service to you. They will relate to such endowments of mind and qualities of heart as you will most frequently have occasion to exercise in future life. These are, self-control, gentleness and benevolence of disposition, purity and rectitude of conduct, courtesy and politeness of manner.

The necessity for acquiring self-control arises, not only from the impossibility of gratifying all, even of our lawful wishes--to say nothing of those unhallowed ones which increase in a tenfold proportion from every indulgence--but from the almost continual calls for its exercise in all our intercourse with society. At home or abroad--in the depths of solitude, or in the busiest haunts of men--in all our domestic relations, as well as in those which place us in a more extended sphere of action, this all important quality is in continual demand. In governing ourselves it is indispensable; nor is it much less necessary when duty requires us to govern, direct or persuade others. Even when we are casually brought into the company of strangers, and for a short time only, it often enables us to command respect and to gain esteem, by manifesting the vast superiority of a well regulated mind over one which yields to every impulse of passion that assails it. This inestimable quality of self-control gives additional zest to all our lawful pleasures, and enhances our highest enjoyments, by causing us always to stop short of satiety; while it enables us by God's help, resolutely and undisturbed, to meet all the crosses and trials to which others may subject us. In a word, it arms us against the strongest temptation of our own passions, and empowers us to disregard the worst that can be attempted against us by the passions of other people. It is in fact the _regulator_, (if I may so express myself,) which governs all the machinery of our minds in such a manner as to prevent them from going either too fast or too slow. How many mortifications and disappointments--how much anger, resentment and grief does it not prevent our suffering from the envy, hatred, malice and uncharitableness of the world around us! How often does it save us from the shame and degradation of sensual indulgence; from the turpitude of sin; from the anguish of remorse. It is the effectual check to the depravity of our nature, which a merciful God will enable us always to apply, if we will only ask it of him as we ought--that is, by continual prayer and supplication.

The other qualities, gentleness, benevolence, purity, rectitude, courtesy and politeness, when accompanied by good sense and a well cultivated mind, constitute the great charm of domestic and social life. Indeed, they may well be called indispensable requisites, since there can be no happiness and very little comfort without them. There never was a greater, a more fatal mistake, than the too common one of supposing that the chief use of such qualities is in society at large; in other words, when we are acting a part before the world, in our ridiculous struggles for distinction and power. Selfishness is the mainspring of all such efforts, and it so sharpens our sagacity as to convince us that our bad qualities _must_ be restrained in public, or they will frequently subject us to punishment if we attempt to disturb others by their indulgence. But in private life, and particularly in the family circle, there are few so insignificant or destitute of means to disturb others as not to possess the power of causing much annoyance, if not actual unhappiness. A single individual of a waspish, irritable, jealous, gossipping, envious and suspicious temper, {173} in these situations, may destroy the peace and poison the domestic enjoyments of a large family. No incident is too trivial to excite some one or other of their bad passions; no person too unoffending to provoke them; no conduct so guarded as to escape malignant remark. Their approach, like the sirocco of the desert, produces an irresistible depression of spirits; constraint and embarrassment spread a gloom over every countenance, and the voice of joy and gladness dies away in their presence. On the other hand, the emanations of a gentle, benevolent disposition, produce the same impression on our hearts, that the balmy breezes and sweet smelling flowers of the vernal season do on our senses. It is a something that we feel deeply in the inmost recesses of our bosom, but cannot well describe. It is an atmosphere of delight in which we would gladly breathe during our whole life.

By purity of thought and rectitude of conduct, in which are comprehended the inestimable virtues of truth, candor and sincerity, we secure for ourselves the unutterable enjoyment of an approving conscience, at the same time that we obtain from others their esteem, their admiration, and their love. We may manifest these qualities in every part of our intercourse with others; for whether we speak or act, occasions continually present themselves to prove that we possess them. By conversation we show the purity of our sentiments; by conduct we manifest the rectitude of our principles--so that in all we either say or do, we supply others with the means of ascertaining what manner of persons we are. True we may deceive some by playing the hypocrite; but the persons whose good opinion is really worth gaining, are not so easily gulled, and our loss, if the game is once seen through, is irretrievable.

In regard to courtesy and politeness, they may justly be called the offspring of benevolence, since their chief object is to promote the ease, the comfort, the pleasure, and happiness of others. It must be admitted there are counterfeit qualities which sometimes pass undetected. But _they_ are the base born children of art and selfishness, aiming solely to promote their own interests by deceiving other people into a belief that _their_ gratification is the end of all their efforts to please. To say nothing of the continual labor and constraint necessary to enable these circulators of false coin to escape discovery and exposure, the superior ease and safety of genuine courtesy and politeness, should be a sufficient inducement with all young persons to study most assiduously to acquire them, even on the supposition that we had no better guide for all our actions in relation to others. That honesty _in manner_, as well as _in conduct_, will ever be found to be the best policy, amid all the varying forms, fashions and practices of the world, is I believe, as certain as that truth is better than falsehood--virtue preferable to vice. Another argument greatly in favor of genuine courtesy and politeness is, that they are the most current and easily procurable coin you can possibly use, being equally well adapted (if I may keep up the metaphor,) to make either large or small purchases. The articles procured too in exchange, always greatly exceed in real intrinsic value, all that you ever give for them. This is merely the manifestation of a sincere, an earnest desire to please; while the precious return is almost always the cordial expression of truly friendly feeling, the look of pleasurable emotion, and the affectionate regards of a grateful heart, particularly where the intercourse has been of sufficient duration to admit of some little development of character. Let it not be said that a cause apparently so slight is inadequate to produce such strong effects. There lives not a human being who has ever felt the influence of genuine courtesy and politeness, but can testify to the truth of what has been said in their praise. Nor is it easy to imagine the possibility of any individual's remaining insensible of their value, who like you my young friends, have always been accustomed to the society of ladies and gentlemen. Knowing this as I do, I should consider it somewhat like a work of supererogation to press upon you the absolute necessity of your constantly cultivating these invaluable qualities, if I were not thoroughly satisfied from painful experience, that almost all young persons require at least occasional admonition on this subject. In vain do some parents solicit, persuade--nay, beseech their daughters, never for a moment to forget what is due to the character of a lady, both in manners and deportment; in vain do they implore them with aching hearts to make a better return for all a mother's care and affection; to no purpose do they pray for that purity of heart and rectitude of principle in their offspring, which is the only true source of good manners: their unfortunate, wayward children continue to act, as if the chief purpose of their existence was to prove to the world how little influence their parents have over them. They seem utterly reckless of the parental tie--regardless of all the disparaging inferences which may be drawn from their own conduct in relation to the characters of their connexions--and continue hardened alike against advice or reproof, in whatever language or manner it may be offered to them. God forbid that such should be the moral portrait of any of my present auditors; but you have all sufficient experience to know that it is not a fancy picture, nor one wherein the features are so exaggerated and caricatured, as to be unlike any person who has ever lived. If none of your schoolmates have ever resembled it, you have either seen or heard of some others in the world whom it would fit. Should your own consciences acquit you, as I sincerely trust they do, of all liability to pursue so reckless a {174} course, both in regard to parental and other admonition--let me beseech you, my young friends, not to tax your imaginations with laboring to conjecture whether I aim at any particular individuals, for I do not; but strive most assiduously to examine your own hearts thoroughly as to all these points, and study so to act on all occasions and towards every person with whom you may have any thing to do, that the praise not only of courtesy and politeness may ever be yours, but likewise the far more exalted merit of right minds and pure hearts.

When I look back on the years that have passed away since this school commenced; when I reflect on the many anxious hours which your teachers have spent in meditating on the most effectual means to render their instructions and admonitions conducive to your eternal as well as temporal welfare; and when I recollect the several instances wherein I am persuaded they had good cause to believe that an all bounteous Providence had favored their humble labors, my heart is filled with gratitude for the past; and I cherish the fond hope that _you too_, my young friends, will be added to the number of those, who by the exemplary character of your future lives, will cause your instructers to rejoice that _you_ likewise have once been their pupils. Three or four of you have been so from the first to the last, and the rest have been long enough members of our family to be thoroughly acquainted with the whole course of our instruction. You cannot therefore be ignorant either of the chief objects at which you have always been taught to aim, or of the means recommended to be invariably pursued for their attainment. If you have failed to profit by them the fault must rest somewhere; the awful responsibility attaches to one or both parties; and let us all earnestly pray to God, that the purity and rectitude of our future lives, should it please him to spare us, may avert the punishment justly due to such offences. That none may plead forgetfulness, let me briefly recapitulate once more, and for the last time, what our course has been. The primary objects always most earnestly pressed upon your attention have been, first and above all, to prepare yourselves for another and a better world, by a life of usefulness in the present; by the love and fear of God; by cheerful obedience to his will; and by continually doing good to your fellow creatures whenever you had the means and the opportunity. Your secondary objects have been the study of sciences and languages, physical and intellectual improvement, with a view, not to foster pride and vanity, but solely to increase your power of being useful. Lastly, you have been taught to acquire certain arts usually ranked under the head of "accomplishments," but you have been invariably and perseveringly admonished to consider them merely as _recreations_, innocent if indulged in only occasionally, but sinful when made, as they too often are, the principal business of life. On all occasions too, you have been persuaded never so far to confide in the maxim that "youth is the season for enjoyment," as to forget that, like old age it _may_, and too often _is_, the season of suffering also. A preparation for such contingencies _must_ be made by all, or the hour of misfortune, although every human being is destined to meet it, will overwhelm those who are unprepared for it with a degree of misery which admits of neither alleviation nor cure. Young as you all are, and little as you have yet seen of human life, you have already felt, if not in your own persons, at least in the case of others, something of the effect produced by sudden and unexpected calamity, bursting like a thunderclap on the heads of its devoted victims. But a few days have passed away since you were witnesses to such an event in the case of two of your school companions. The morning on which it happened shone upon them cheerful and happy as any among you, unconscious of any impending misfortune, undisturbed by any anticipations to mar their peace. Yet, in a very few hours from that time, they were both plunged into the deepest affliction; both by a single blow reduced perhaps to poverty; both suddenly called by the most awful death of a parent of one of them, to return to a wretched family bereft of its chief support, and crushed to the earth in all the helplessness of irremediable wo. Alas! my young friends, how few of you ever think of drawing from such occurrences the many salutary lessons they are so well calculated to impart! How many turn away from them as matters to be banished as speedily as possible from your remembrance; as events never likely to happen to yourselves! Yet every hour that we live--every moment that we breathe--not one among us, no not one single individual, can truly say, "_I_ am free--_I_ am exempt both from present and contingent calamity." Far, very far am I indeed, from wishing you to be so constantly absorbed in gloomy anticipations, as to prevent you in the slightest degree from enjoying every innocent gratification suitable to your respective ages and situations in life. But I would have you all to know and to feel in your inmost heart, that "sweet are the uses of adversity," and that none should think themselves fit to live until they feel prepared to die the death of the righteous before God and man. Hard as this requisition may seem, thousands upon thousands, and of your age too, have complied with it to the very letter. Thousands have furnished angelic examples, even to the aged and hoary headed, that the fresh, the blooming, the joyous period of youth may be dedicated to God, as well as that worn out remnant of life when all power of earthly enjoyment is supposed to be dead within us, and nothing remains to be offered to heaven but exhausted faculties and fast decaying intellects. {175} Has not our blessed Saviour himself declared, when speaking of children, that "of such is the kingdom of heaven;" and in illustration of this truth, are not all the images of cherubim and seraphim presented to our senses, always represented with juvenile countenances, glowing with all the innocence and loveliness of youth? Shall the youth then of the present day--the youth of our own country--but especially the female portion of them, ever adopt the fatal delusion that _theirs_ is an age too immature for the acquisition and exercise of the highest moral and religious attainments. Shall _they_ fall into the ruinous error that it is yet time enough for them to attend to spiritual matters, and that the prime and vigor of their lives are to be wasted in merely temporal pursuits unworthy the characters and disgraceful to the rational creatures formed for a state of eternal happiness? Far better would it be that they never had been born; or that the hand of misfortune--the saddest hours of unmitigated suffering, should continue to press on them with all their weight, until they could be brought to know their duty to God, to their fellow beings, and to themselves. Heaven forbid, my young friends, that such awful discipline should be necessary to bring _you also_ to a proper sense of all you owe to the Divine Author of your existence, and to that society of which you may become either the blessing or the curse. Heaven forbid that any of you should so far forget the high destinies for which you were formed--the glorious purposes to which your lives should be devoted--and the everlasting happiness promised in another world to all who fulfil their duties in this, as to neglect for a moment any of the means essential to improve your hearts and minds to the utmost attainable degree. Nothing--no nothing within the range of possibility can enable you to do this, but continual, earnest, heartfelt prayer to God for the aid of his holy spirit in all your undertakings; frequent and deep meditation on all the vicissitudes of life; frequent and serious forethought in regard not only to what you may probably enjoy in the present world, but to what you may possibly be devoted to suffer. Gay and happy as you all now are in the joyous anticipations so natural to youth and health, it _may_ be your fate (but God forbid it ever should,) to see one by one of your nearest and dearest connexions drop into the grave--some in the very blossom and promise of juvenile years--others worn down by care, disease and old age. It _may_ be your fate to be the very last of your race, reserved to mourn over all who have gone before to another world. All this, my children, and yet deeper affliction may possibly be _your_ lot--for it _has been_ that of thousands, aye of millions before you. Can it be of _no importance_ then; nay, is it not of _the last, the highest, the most vital importance_, that you should make at least some small preparation for such appalling contingencies, lest they befal you utterly unawares? Will you ask me what is that preparation? It is simply so to use all your good gifts as not to abuse them; so to cherish all the powers both of your bodies and minds that they may last as long as nature intended they should, and fulfil all the purposes for which they were designed; so to divide your time between useful occupation and necessary recreation, that none may be said to be wasted or lost; in a word, _so to live_ that you may never be found _unprepared to die_. The joys of heaven should ever be the beacon to guide your course; and the road by which you should travel through the present life to reach them, should be _that_ and _that only_ which your heavenly Father, through his blessed Son, has commanded and besought you to take. Thousands who have steadily pursued this course have testified that it is "a way of pleasantness and a path of peace" to all who have once attained the dispositions, feelings and principles enjoined upon those who have made it their choice, in preference to all other reputed roads to happiness; while not a solitary human being who has ever tried these other roads, has ever yet been heard to bear witness in their favor, after the experiment has been fully made. Woful then must be your mistake, most fatal your error, in choosing "the way in which you should go," should you rather be led by the sinful allurements of illicit pleasure, than the universally concurring testimony of the good, the wise, and the just throughout the world.

In a few fleeting hours more this school will cease to exist, and your present monitor will have uttered the last words of admonition which he will ever address to you as pupils. Anxiously, most anxiously do I desire to fix them indelibly on your minds. But alas! I feel too sensibly my own inability, as well as the evanescent nature of all language in the form of advice, to hope for more than a temporary impression. If I make even _that_, I shall in part at least have attained the sole object of all that I ever said to you, which has been your own intellectual improvement, your own happiness. Let me entreat you, my dear young friends; let me implore you for the last time, never to forget (whatever other things you may suffer to escape your memories,) any of the various moral and religious instructions which you have received under our care. I feel well assured that they will not fail to come home to your bosoms--probably too with greatly augmented force, should the withering blasts of misfortune ever spread desolation and wo among you. But I pray for something more for you. I would have you bear them continually in remembrance, even in your happiest hours of prosperous fortune. I would have each of you individually meditate on them "when thou sittest in thy house, and when thou walkest by the way, and when thou liest down, and when thou {176} risest up." Then, but not until _then_, will you be fully prepared both for adversity and prosperity; and then indeed may you confidently trust that the God of all mercy and goodness will vouchsafe to impart to you the true christian's last, best hope, both for time and eternity.

Separated from us all as you will soon be, perhaps forever, and about to enjoy, as I earnestly desire, a happy meeting with the beloved friends and relatives from whom you have been so long withdrawn, accept for the last time our heartfelt assurances that our best wishes, our anxious prayers for your happiness, will accompany you through all the vicissitudes of life; that we shall always sympathise both in your joys and your sorrows; and that our own enjoyments will ever be greatly augmented by hearing that you are all leading exemplary and happy lives. For power to do this, forget not--oh! never for a moment forget, that your sole reliance must be on your heavenly Father and his holy spirit, which hath been promised abundantly to all who ask it in truth and sincerity.

"May the blessing of an all merciful God be ever on you and around you. May his grace be a lamp unto your feet and a light unto your path. May it guide, strengthen and support you in all the troubles and adversities of this life, and bring you, through faith in our Redeemer, to eternal blessedness in that which is to come."--AMEN.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE SEASONS.

The verdant spring, decked in her brightest gems, and arrayed in her most gorgeous vesture, has driven hoary winter to his icy caverns, and leads forth her sportive train to kindle a smile upon the face of nature. The mountain streamlets, revelling in joyous gaiety at their disenthralment from the chains of winter, are playfully meandering among the flowrets which deck their velvet banks; and the smiling vallies, embosomed amid the lofty mountains, put forth their verdure, as if in commemoration of him who "holdeth in his hand the destiny of nations!" The blushing rose has expanded beneath the genial rays of the resplendent god of day, and scents with its fragrance the vernal zephyrs which stoop to kiss it as they pass. The woods, and rivers, and mountains, all clad in their variegated garments, seem to mingle in the celebration of the grand jubilee of nature!

The flowers of spring have faded. The refulgent sun has ascended yet higher in his brilliant pathway through the heaven; the gay vesture of the earth is yellowing beneath his scorching rays. The fruit, of which the vernal blossoms gave such fair and glorious promise, has ripened into maturity under his golden influence. Voluptuous summer has been ushered in upon the stage of time, accompanied and heralded by myriads of gleesome fairies, wantonly disporting upon the rich carpets, rivalling in splendor the purple of ancient Tyre, which nature has spread over the earth for her reception. The chaste Diana holds her nocturnal course through the blue expanse of ether, studded with countless gems, the brightest jewels in heaven's diadem, shedding her mild and mellow light over the sombre forests, and gilding the sparkling streamlets, which placidly repose beneath her beams. Earth, sea and air, encompassed by a heavenly serenity, seem to blend their beauties into one rich picture of loveliness, and offer up their united orisons to the sovereign Lord of all!

The revolving wheels of time, in their ceaseless and eternal gyrations, have rolled away the glories of the regal summer into the vast charnel house of the past--and the demon of decay, like the fiend consumption, breathing its fatal influence upon the roseate cheek of youthful beauty, has withered the tresses which hung in wild luxuriancy upon the bosom of the earth, and has stamped upon her brow the impress of his iron signet, as if to shadow forth her approaching doom. The limpid streams which veined her surface, and under the mild sway of the queenly summer, danced and sparkled in the sun's meridian beam, now roll lazily along in their channels, as if performing the funeral obsequies of the buried past. The vallies, but lately decorated in the blooming apparel of spring, have now assumed a more variegated and gorgeous hue, which like the hectic flush which fitfully crimsons the pallid cheek of consumption's hopeless victim, only indicates the accelerated progress of decay. A deep, monotonous, unbroken stillness reigns o'er the hills and vallies, but lately teeming with life and animation. A creeping, deathlike, insidious languor, the sure precursor of winter's despotic reign, pervades the works of nature, hushing the breezes which ripple o'er the surface of the placid lake, and fettering the whole earth in supine inertness. The face of nature is robed in melancholy sadness, as if mourning over the faded glories of the declining year!

Onward, in cold and gloomy grandeur, advance the frowning heralds of the despot winter! Every vestige of vernal beauty has faded from their presence. The mountains, vales and rivulets, as if anticipating his hateful arrival, have veiled themselves in a frigid, chilling vesture of white! Even the tears which sympathising heaven sheds upon the bosom of the earth, become congealed and frozen beneath his blighting influence. The volcanic fires which rage in the bosom of the towering mountain cower in dismay from his terrific glance. At length the tyrant, with his iron sceptre and icy crown, is seated on his throne. His attendant ministers rush to assist in the frightful coronation, and amid the demoniac yells which announce the termination of the loathsome ceremony, the harsh old Boreas shrieks forth the requiem of the departed year!

V.

{177}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

BYRON'S LAST WORDS.

BY D. MARTIN.

Summer was in its glory. Night came down,
With a light step upon the virent earth;
Sepulchral silence reigned on every side;
And the winds--those heralders of storm
Which curl the billows on Old Ocean's brow,
In their low breathings were inaudible,--
When a gifted son of Genius sought his home,
And threw himself upon a lowly couch,
And as his being's star went slowly down,
He thus communed in low and faltering tone:--

Oh! it is hard to die!
To leave this world of amaranthine green,
Whose glittering pageantry and flowery sheen,
Vie with the glorious sky!

But alas! the hand of Death,
Has laid its icy grasp upon me now;
The cold sweat rests upon my feverish brow,
And shorter grows my breath!

Well be it so!
And I will pass away like light at even,
Unto the Houri's amethystine heaven,
Where all immortal go!

Yet I have drank
Unto its very dregs, the cup of Fame,
And won myself a green, undying name,
In Glory's rank!

And yet!--oh, yet,
"Break but one seal for me unbroken!
Speak but one word for me unspoken!
Before my sun is set!"

Oh, for one drop
Of the black waters of that stream sublime,
Which follows in the stormy track of Time,
This breath to stop!

It may not be!
Yet I would pray that Memory might rest,
Like the wan beauty of the sunlit west,
In dark oblivion's sea!

Thus did he commune--and when the god of day
Rose like a monarch from his sapphire throne,
His spirit had passed away like morning mist--
And winged its way unto that far off land,
Where burns fore'er eternity's bright star!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

TO A YOUNG LADY.

How beautiful, fair girl, art thou,
All robed in innocence and truth!
Upon thy calm and snowy brow,
Beam, like a crown, the smiles of youth;
Heaven's sunshine falls and lights thy way,
As one too pure and bright for sorrow--
And virtue's soft and seraph ray
Flings lustre on thy dawning morrow,--
Giving a promise, that thy life
Will ever be, with pleasure, rife!

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, {178}
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; {179}
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, {180}
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_.

{181}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE MECHANICIAN AND UNCLE SIMON.