Chapter I: on "English Poetry," tracing as it does the rude and (10)

Mr. Poe's story of "_Hans Phaall_," will add much to his reputation as an imaginative writer. In these _ballooning_ days, when every "puny whipster" is willing to risk his neck in an attempt to "leave dull earth behind him," and when we hear so much of the benefits which science is to derive from the art of aerostation, a journey to the moon may not be considered a matter of mere moonshine. Mr. Poe's scientific Dutch bellows-mender is certainly a prodigy, and the more to be admired, as he performs impossibilities, and details them with a minuteness so much like truth, that they seem quite probable. Indeed the _cause_ of his great enterprise is in admirable harmony with the exploits which it encourages him to perform. There are thousands who, to escape the pertinacity of uncivil creditors, would be tempted to a flight as perilous as that of Hans Phaall. Mr. Poe's story is a long one, but it will appear short to the reader, whom it bears along with irresistible interest, through a region of which, of all others, we know least, but which his fancy has invested with peculiar charms. We trust that a future missive from the lunar voyager will give us a narrative of his adventures in the orb that he has been the first to explore.

"_The Sale_" is one of Nugator's best sketches, and will be recognized as true to the life, by those who best know the scenes and circumstances described. The characters of the Hoe-Cake ridger and his steed are admirably drawn.

Among our Reviews, those upon _Bancroft's History of the United Stales_, and the _Writings of General Washington_, are from the gifted pen of the reviewer of the orations of Messrs. Adams and Everett. The former displays much research, and contains some highly interesting details of our early history. The latter is the most eloquent tribute to the character of Washington that has ever met our eye. It is not our custom to notice our reviews; but it would have been indelicate in us to assume for a moment, even indirectly, the authorship of two articles of such transcendent merit.

The Poetical department in the present number is well supplied. "_The Daughter's Lullaby_," a parody of Mrs. Hemans's Sunset Tree, but a _parody_ only in the form of the verse, is a perfect gem. The _Lines on Lafayette_, by Mrs. Willard, possess much merit. "_The Old Parish Church_," will be read with feeling by the Virginia _antiquarian_--if such a being exist among us. The stanzas to "_Estelle_," and the lines which follow, were formerly addressed to us under the signature of _Fra Diavolo_, and were not inserted, because accompanied by another poem which the late editor deemed objectionable. The author has requested us to suppress the latter, and has permitted the publication of those pieces to which no exception was taken by our predecessor, who was fully impressed with the spirit of true poetry which characterizes these productions. The scene from the unpublished drama, entitled "_Arnold and Andre_," will be read with uncommon interest. The author is not unknown to fame, and in this fragment of a work, which he informs us it is his intention to complete, he has given earnest of the merit which it will possess as a whole. The description of the battle of Princeton (the only occasion as we believe, in which Washington drew his sword during the whole war,) is powerfully described by the Old Officer, as also the great influence which the father of our liberties possessed and exercised over the minds and actions of his followers. It is with great pleasure we announce the writer of this admirable scene, as one from whom future contributions to the Messenger may be anticipated.

{534}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A STORM ON THE PRAIRIES.

[From the Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell, Esquire.]

I left the Fort early in the morning of the 28th December, accompanied as usual by my Spaniard and a few Canadian servants. The season thus far had been uncommonly fine, not a spot of snow was visible on the prairies, and, as we passed along, the Elk, Antelope, and Fox, were seen in various directions reposing with all that lazy listlessness which the warm suns of March and April never fail to produce upon both man and beast. There was in fact nothing to remind us of the presence of winter, except the barren nakedness of nature, and the long range of the rocky mountains whose snowy peaks glittered in the sun, and whose hoary summits stretching far to the north and south, were undistinguishable from the white vapory clouds which floated around them. Towards evening, however, a fresh gale sprung up from the north, and a very sensible change in the temperature was experienced. We drew our Buffalo robes closer around us, and jogged on, talking and laughing away the time, inattentive to the signs of the storm which was rapidly gathering. A few flakes of snow began to descend, and the sun became suddenly obscured. We were now sensible that a snow storm of unusual violence was fast approaching, and we laid whip to our horses, in the hope of reaching the shelter afforded by a spot of timbered ground, about eight miles distant. The tempest however had already burst upon us in all its fury; large snow-flakes came whirling and eddying about our heads, which were caught up by the wind before they could fall to the earth;--darkness and confusion increased every moment, and in half an hour it was impossible to see ten paces before us. Our horses now became blind and ungovernable, some dashing away with their riders across the prairies, heedless of what direction they took, and others taking a firm and immoveable position with their heads opposite to the wind and refusing to stir an inch. Of course, all of us became soon separated. It was of no use to call out to each other, for our voices were drowned in the roar of the tempest, and could not be heard twenty steps. In this emergency I dismounted from my steed, and leaving him to his fate, endeavored to keep myself warm by vigorous exercise. Blinded and chilled by the wind and snow, I stumbled forward, groping my way in darkness, and regardless of the route which I took. At length, having proceeded some distance, I tumbled headlong into a deep ravine filled with snow, from which, with all my efforts, enfeebled as I was by fatigue, I was unable to extricate myself. After some rest and many unavailing trials, I at length crawled out, and perceiving at some little distance a kind of shelter formed by an overhanging rock, I immediately sought it, and wrapping my cloak and blanket around me, sat down in no enviable mood, contemplating my forlorn and apparently hopeless condition. After remaining in the ravine about two hours, the fury of the storm subsided, when on making a careful examination I discovered a place in the bank which was of comparatively easy ascent, and accordingly succeeded in gaining the level prairies. I looked around for my unfortunate companions, but no vestige of them was to be seen. The snow lay piled up in ridges several feet high, and the wind though considerably abated, continued to throw its light particles into such dense masses or clouds as to intercept the view beyond a short distance. There was a kind of hillock or mound in the prairie, about a half mile off, to which I directed my steps in the hope that from its summit I might make some discovery, and I was not disappointed. I thought that I saw a few hundred yards distant, the whole of my party collected together, and I instantly turned to join them. Guess my astonishment, however, when in lieu of my unfortunate comrades, I recognized my horse standing all benumbed and shivering with cold, in company with a few old buffalo bulls. I approached very near before they saw me, but on reaching out my hand to seize my horse's bridle, the buffaloes took to flight, and whether it was that my horse being a regular hunter, followed them from habit, or clung to them in the present instance as companions in misfortune, I do not know,--but so it was that he scampered off with the rest, and by his ill timed desertion greatly aggravated my distress. I was now thirty miles from home,--the night was fast approaching and the weather intensely cold. What was I to do? If I lay in the open prairie, without the means of kindling a fire, I knew that the snow would at once be my winding sheet and grave: the thought too of my companions, and their uncertain fate, added poignancy to my reflections.

After a few moments of melancholy musing, I determined to pursue my horse, and if he could not be reclaimed to shoot him on the spot, in order that I might recover such articles as he carried on his back, and which might aid me in repelling the cold. I followed for nearly a mile, the horse and buffalo still walking off before me, when my patience being entirely exhausted, I took deliberate aim and fired. The ball however fell short of its mark, the buffaloes ran off at full speed, and my horse, greatly to my surprise, instead of following the bad example of flight, suddenly pricked up his ears and looked inquiringly around. Whether it was that he knew the report of my gun, which had so often brought down the buffalo, when mounted on his back, or that he really took compassion on my desolate situation and repented his ungrateful conduct, it is of course impossible to tell, but so it was that he turned round and hastened to meet me at a brisk trot. When he approached very near, he stopped and seemed irresolute, but having reloaded my gun I was resolved that he should not again escape. I made towards him as warily as possible, when making a sudden spring I seized the bridle, and in a few moments was safely seated on his back.

A moment before I could have exclaimed with the ill-fated Richard, "a horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" but now that I had reclaimed my own, I found my situation but little alleviated. The sun had already sunk far behind the mountains, and the wind, which blew directly from the north, came with such intense bitterness that in spite of my clothing and robe, it seemed to penetrate my very vitals. I gazed round on the boundless prairie, in the hope of descrying some timbered spot which should serve as a place of refuge, but all was one dreary waste. Nothing was to be seen but a broad expanse of plain, undulated by ridges of snow--and nothing heard but the hollow and mournful gusts which swept over the desolate scene and sounded like a {535} funeral dirge. My apprehensions were gloomy enough, and losing all confidence in my own half-bewildered reason, I threw the reins on the neck of my horse, and giving him the whip, surrendered the choice of the route to his own better instinct. The sagacious brute seemed conscious of his new responsibility, and as if to atone for his unkind treatment after the storm, he gave a loud neigh, and then sprung off at a sweeping gallop which he continued for an hour and a half. It was now completely dark, and I was so thoroughly benumbed with cold, that I could scarcely retain my seat. I felt indeed like one lingering on the very brink of despair, when my horse suddenly gave another loud neigh which was instantly returned. He sprang forward with renewed life and spirit, and in a moment after, upon reaching the top of some rising ground, a large fire sent up its cheerful blaze to my view; and to my utter surprise as well as delight, I beheld my companions who were so recently dispersed by the storm, comfortably seated around it. With a loud shout of congratulation I hurried down the hill and joined them. A sailor who has been wrecked at sea, and who after buffeting the stormy billows until nature is exhausted, is at length cast on shore by some friendly wave, never felt a more thrilling sensation of pleasure or thankfulness, than I did at that moment. In the fulness of my heart I most fervently thanked heaven for its protection; then seizing my horse around the neck, I tenderly embraced him, and poured forth my gratitude and forgiveness to his unconscious ear. Many no doubt would be disposed to smile at this seeming folly; but let them reflect that when the spirit has been raised from the lowest depths of despair to the highest summit of hope and enjoyment--the man must be cold indeed who does not evince some extravagance in feeling or conduct, as in the case of the poor man, whose fortunes are suddenly made by a prize in the lottery, some excuse may be given for a few irrational freaks and absurd eccentricities. Like all excessive joy, however, mine was but temporary--or at least not unalloyed, for I soon discovered that one of my men was missing, having been separated from his companions during the storm, and not since seen or heard of.

With the aid of a large fire, a sufficient number of blankets, and a bottle of old Jamaica, we contrived to pass the night in tolerable comfort, notwithstanding the cold, which was tremendous. Early next morning, we proceeded to scour the prairie in search of our lost companion. We searched until late in the evening--but all our efforts were vain, and we returned once more to the camp. The unfortunate man had doubtless fallen a victim to the fury of the storm,--for we never heard of him more. His body probably lay wrapped in its snowy shroud until spring, when at last it was revealed to the eager eyes of ravenous birds and beasts. Death is in any shape appalling; and his near approach will for a moment shake the stoutest heart. It will even blanch the cheek of the hero, surrounded by the "pomp and circumstance of glorious war." What then must be the situation of him who is overtaken by the violence of the wintry storm, and sinks, exhausted by cold and weariness, on the trackless prairie. For the last time he hears the night wind, as it chants his funeral dirge,--whilst the mournful howl of the starving wolf, or the scream of the ill-omened raven, as he circles in the air, and watches the last vital spark as it vanishes--disturbs the dying moments of the victim!

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LETTERS FROM A SISTER.

LETTER FIFTEENTH.

Foundling Hospital--Hotel Carnavalet--Count de Ségur.

PARIS, ----.

This morning, dear Jane, we visited the Foundling Hospital. Being told we should go there very early to behold the emptying of the baskets in which the babes are deposited at the gate during the night, we hastened there ere seven o'clock; but we had been misinformed, and were disappointed in our wishes. The infants are carried there at all hours; none however were received during our visit. We were conducted through the numerous wards, and saw many forsaken little creatures--a distressing sight, indeed! Then to behold the sufferings of such as were diseased! Some of them lying on hard beds, with a bright light from opposite windows torturing their eyes, which were generally inflamed from being thus exposed. Some of the nurses too, were exceedingly rough. For instance, in an apartment attached to the sick wards, four or five women were occupied in _dosing_ and feeding several babes--one of them asked another who stood by a table, to hand her a spoon; instead of handing it, she threw it, and so carelessly, that the poor child received a blow on the cheek. I could have boxed the vixen! Each infant is swathed, and wears on its wrist a piece of pewter, telling the hour, the day of the month, and the year of its reception at the hospital; this enables a parent who may desire to reclaim a child, to find it. About six thousand children are annually received here, and frequently as many as twenty in the course of a day. A considerable number are sent into the country to be nursed, and during our stay, a half a dozen carts drove off, filled with peasant women and their helpless charges. The destiny of these we thought enviable, when compared with that of those who remained. At two years of age, the children are removed to another hospital, and there instructed until old enough to be put to some trade.

After breakfast, we visited a place of a more pleasing description; this was the Hotel de Carnavalet, formerly the residence of Madame de Sévigné. It is now inhabited by a Monsieur de P----, an eminent engineer, with whom we have become acquainted, and who kindly invited us there, to see the very chamber and cabinet occupied by that lady, when she penned those charming letters to the Countess de Grignan. The window of the cabinet overlooks a small garden, in which is a flourishing yew tree, that was planted by Madame de Sévigné herself. As I viewed it, and thought of her who reared it, Lord Byron's beautiful lines on the cypress came forcibly to my mind.

"Dark tree! still sad when other's grief is fled,
The only constant mourner o'er the dead."

The charming old Count de Ségur has returned to town, and we have paid him our respects at his residence in the Rue Duphot. He was here yesterday, and invited us to dine with him _en famille_ to-day; we are going, and I shall close my letter with an account of the party, when we come back. At present I must abandon the writing desk for the toilet table.

{536} Eleven at night. We reached home a half an hour since, and having changed my dress for a robe de chambre, behold me quite at my ease, and again in possession of the pen. We spent our hours delightfully at the Count's! On alighting there, we were for some minutes sole tenants of the parlor, and thus had an opportunity of examining a beautiful portrait that decorates the wall of the room, and which we afterwards learned, is that of the late Countess de Ségur. It was painted during her youth, and if the resemblance be a good one, she must have been a lovely creature! Our observations were interrupted by the entrance of the Count from his library, adjoining the parlor--and our circle was soon increased by the addition of several French gentlemen, to whom he introduced us, but I quite forget their names. One of them had recently been in Greece, and described a horrible scene of carnage he witnessed there. In the evening the Count had many visiters, this being the time he prefers his friends to call on him. Among those who came in, was the authoress of "Adèle de Senange," that interesting novel we read together last winter. You may depend I heard the name of Madame de S---- announced with great satisfaction. She entered, and we beheld a plain looking woman, apparently about fifty years old. Then there was Monsieur de Marbois, who wrote the history of Louisiana, one of the United States; and Count Philip de Ségur, author of the "Russian Campaign," who is considered the ablest military historian of the age. I am now so sleepy I can write no more, so bid you, in the name of all of us, a fond adieu.

LEONTINE.

* * * * *

LETTER SIXTEENTH.

Saint Denis--Montmorency--the Rendezvous--the Hermitage--Enghien--Mass at the Tuileries' Chapel--the Bourbons.

PARIS, ----.

_Dear Jane_:--

Marcella Erisford has arrived, accompanied by her father, who returns to Soissons to-morrow. He has been residing there eleven months, in order to settle some business, relative to a legacy left him by an intimate friend; in the spring he expects to re-embark for Philadelphia, his native city. He resembles his sister, Mrs. Danville, and appears equally amiable and desirous of contributing to the happiness of those around him. We shall sincerely regret his departure. Marcella is quite a beauty, with her glowing cheeks, hazel eyes and pearly teeth, although her features are by no means regular. She is less lively than Leonora, but just as intelligent and accomplished; so you see I have two delightful companions to console me (if it were _possible_) for your absence. Our brother Edgar is, I think, desperately smitten with Marcella; certes, when she is by, he has neither eyes or ears for any body or anything else.

Now for our peregrinations. The weather being remarkably fine on Tuesday, and the carriages at the door by nine o'clock, according to order, we proceeded to Montmorency and the Abbey of St. Denis. Oh, how your pensive spirit will luxuriate in wandering through the solemn aisles and caverns of this "hoary pile," among the sepulchres of its mighty dead! You are aware that during the revolution, this asylum of deceased royalty, was invaded by a barbarous populace, who dragged the corpses from their graves, loaded them with indignities, and cast them into ditches and other places of filth. It is related that the corpse of the brave Louis XIV, when thus profaned, raised its arm, as if to strike the miscreant who dared the deed, while that of the good Henri Quatre (which was found uninjured by time) smiled benignantly on his ungrateful subjects! The tombs have since been restored by Napoleon, who intended for himself and his descendants the vault which is appropriated to the Bourbons. It is secured by two massive bronze gates, which he had made to close upon his own ashes, that now repose under a simple stone on the barren island of St. Helena! So changes the glory of this world and its mighty ones! The Abbey of Saint Denis was originally a plain chapel, erected by a pious and wealthy lady named Catulla, to shelter the remains of that martyr (St. Denis) and his companions, after their execution. The generosity and care of various monarchs, have transformed the humble chapel into the present majestic cathedral. The relics of St. Denis are enclosed in a splendid shrine, the gift of Louis XVIII; and the sumptuous altar in front of this, with its enormous gold candlesticks, was given to the church by Bonaparte, after his marriage with the Empress Marie Louise, on which occasion it was first erected in the Louvre, where the ceremony was performed. In the side aisles of St. Denis, are several superb monuments, in memory of Francis I, Henry II, and Henry III, and their queens. The antique sepulchres of Dagobert, and his spouse Nantilde, are near the door, and that of Dagobert most curiously carved. In one of the vaults we saw the stone coffin of King Pepin; it is open and empty, and when struck upon the side, sounds like metal. Near the mausoleum of Francis I, stands the mimic bier of Louis XVIII, canopied and richly decorated with funereal ornaments. It will remain until succeeded by that of Charles X, for such is the custom of France. What gave rise to it I know not; but we may reasonably suppose that it was intended, like the monitor of Philip of Macedon, to remind the reigning monarch of his mortality.

At Montmorency we had fine sport riding about on donkeys to the different points of view that merit notice for their beauty. The little animal upon which Mr. Erisford rode, was at first extremely refractory, and the trouble he had to force it along excited our mirth; then my saddle girth broke, and this was another source of merriment. After riding over the valley, we alighted at the hunting seat of the unhappy father of the murdered Duke d'Enghien, the present prince of Condé, who is said to be yet overwhelmed with affliction at the untimely and cruel end of his noble son. The place is called the "Rendezvous;" it is shady and pleasant--the house a plain stone building: we did not enter it, but partook of some cool milk beneath the trees, in front of the door. We purchased it of the game keeper and his wife, who reside there. Retracing our path, (and the little donkeys, I assure you, trotted _back_ much faster than they _went_,) we stopped at the Hermitage. This is the most interesting object to be seen at Montmorency, and indeed the chief attraction to that spot--although circumstances induced us to defer our visit to it till the last. It is a quarter of a mile from the village, and was the residence of Jean Jacques Rousseau, and afterwards of Andrew Gretry, the musical composer, {537} whose family still occupy it. They are so obliging as to allow strangers to visit this rural retreat of those celebrated men, and have arranged in a small apartment, various articles that were owned and used by them, and that are consequently interesting to the spectator; for instance, the bedstead and table of Rousseau; the cup and saucer of Gretry; his comb and spectacles, and the antique little spinet upon which he tried his compositions. A flower garden adjoins the mansion, and there we saw a rose bush that was planted by Jean Jacques, and the stone bench upon which he used to sit while writing his "Héloise." From the bay tree that shades it, I procured a leaf for your herbarium. A rivulet meanders through the garden, and empties into a small lake, near which is the bust of Gretry, supported by a column, with an inscription in gilt letters. Rousseau's bust occupies a niche in the wall, and is covered with a glass to protect it from the pencils of scribblers, which have disfigured it considerably. Bidding adieu to the Hermitage, we returned to the "White Horse," an excellent inn we had selected in the town, and having recruited ourselves with a hearty dinner, resumed our seats upon the donkeys, and repaired to the village of d'Enghien, (a mile distant,) to see its neat and commodious sulphur baths, and the pretty lake of St. Gratien, on the border of which it stands. In the centre of the water is a restaurant, to which, if you choose, you are conveyed in a boat; but it was so late, that our parents would not consent to make this aquatic excursion, and we therefore returned to Montmorency, and thence to Paris. A bright moon lighted us home, where we arrived about eleven o'clock, pleased with our day's adventures, and so sleepy we could scarcely reach our chambers without falling into a slumber on the way. On Sunday Mr. Dorval brought us six tickets of admission to the Chapel of the Tuileries, where high mass is performed every Sabbath while the king is in the city. Not a moment was to be lost, so we hastened to array ourselves for the occasion, as full dress is required if you sit in the gallery with the royal family, and our billets were such as to admit us there. Marcella, Leonora and myself had just purchased new bonnets, and these we wore. Their's are of straw colored crape, ornamented with blond and bunches of lilacs, and are very becoming; mine is of pink, and decorated with blond and white hyacynths. Our party, consisting of Mamma, Papa, Edgar, and our three ladyships, was soon ready and at the palace. The chapel was crowded, but we found no difficulty in obtaining seats--for on presenting our tickets, the captain of the guards handed us to them, and the throng yielded to him without hesitation. The music was very fine, and we had a close view of the Bourbons and their suite. They were sumptuously clad, and the King and Duke and Duchess of Angoulême seemed very devout. The Duchess has a most melancholy expression of countenance, owing perhaps to the sad vicissitudes of her youth. Neither she, her spouse or uncle are popular. The Duchess de Berri is exceedingly so, and is considered one of the most charitable ladies in the kingdom. She is extremely fair, has light hair and a pleasing face. She is not sufficiently dignified, I think, and is a terrible fidget; during service she was continually adjusting her tucker, necklace, or sleeve. It is reported, that when the omnibuses, or circulating carriages of the boulevards were first introduced, she made a bet with the king that she would ride in one of them, and actually did so, in disguise! I am summoned to the parlor to receive visiters--so kiss my hand to you.

LEONTINE.

P. S. Our guests proved to be General and Mr. George Washington Lafayette. They came to take leave of us ere their departure for La Grange. The Chamber of Deputies having dissolved, they go to the country to-morrow, where the rest of the family have already established themselves. We have been so pressingly invited to pay them a visit, that we have determined to do so, and anticipate great pleasure and gratification from spending a day or two in the midst of this charming and highly respected family. Again adieu.

L.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

MY DAUGHTER'S LULLABY.

Tune--"The Sunset Tree."

Come! Come! Come!
Come to thy Mother's breast!
The day begins to close:
And the bright, but fading west
Invites thee to repose.
The frolic and the fun
Of thy childish sports are o'er:
But, with to-morrow's sun,
To be renewed once more.

Come! Come! Come!
Come to thy Mother's breast!
The day begins to close:
And the bright, but fading west
Invites thee to repose.

Sweet! Sweet! Sweet!
Sweet on thy Mother's knee!
To con thine evening prayer,
To him who watches thee
With a Father's tender care.
For parents and for friends
Then breathe thy simple vow;
And when life's evening ends,
Be innocent as now.

Come! Come! Come!
Come to thy Mother's breast!
The day begins to close:
And the darkening of the west
Invites thee to repose.

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
Sleep till the morning beams!
My song is in thine ear,
To mingle with thy dreams,
And to tell thee I am near.
Bright be thy dreams, my child!
Bright as thy waking eyes,
As the morning beaming mild,
Or the hope that never dies.

Sleep! Sleep! Sleep!
Sleep on thy Mother's breast!
Thine eyes begin to close;
And she that loves thee best
Has lulled thee to repose.

{538}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

_Troy, June, 1835_.

MR. WHITE,--The very polite invitation received in yours of February 11th, (the more valuable because it in part originates with Mr. R.) to contribute to your well conducted, entertaining and instructive periodical, would have been sooner answered, but that I was desirous to write something specially intended for the Messenger. But owing to my having a work (Universal History in Perspective) now in the press, the manuscript of which is not yet quite finished, I am obliged to devote every leisure moment in that direction. Unwilling, however, not to respond to the Virginian politeness which dictated your letter, I have sent you, from my port-folio, some little poems which have not been published.

The Messenger, as I have learned from some of our gentlemen who frequent the reading room, is highly spoken of here. Accept my grateful acknowledgment of your favor, in sending it to me.

Respectfully, yours,

EMMA WILLARD.

OCEAN HYMN.

Written on board the Sully, on a return voyage from France, July, 1831.

Rock'd in the cradle of the deep,
Father, protect me while I sleep;
Secure I rest upon the wave,
For thou my God hast power to save.
I know thou wilt not slight my call,
For thou dost mark the sparrow's fall,
And calm and peaceful is my sleep,
Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.

And such the trust that still were mine,
Tho' stormy winds swept o'er the brine;
Or tho' the tempest's fiery breath
Rous'd me from sleep to wreck and death,
In ocean-cave, still safe with thee,
The germ of immortality,
And sweet and peaceful is my sleep,
Rock'd in the cradle of the deep.

* * * * *

The following was written soon after the intelligence of Lafayette's death reached this country. At the public examination of the young ladies under my charge, they appeared in mourning, on the last day, August 5th, on account of the death of our country's father, and also on that of the death of two of their former school companions. At the close of the school exercises, the little poem in blank verse, was read by one of their number, and the dirge, with a plaintive accompaniment on the harp and piano, was sung. It may be thought strange that I should venture to produce this, when the performances of such eminent men as Messrs. Everett and Adams are before the public.[1] But the incidents of the life of Lafayette are so well known, that it appears to me only necessary to give to memory the key-note and excite her to use her own powers; and to this end a poetic diction gives to the writer some advantages, as it admits of greater condensation of narrative, of thought, and feeling.

[Footnote 1: This was prepared for the Messenger before the number was received containing the critique on those publications.]

LAFAYETTE.

On Seine's fair banks, amidst Parisian towers,
Gather a multitude! Slowly they come,
And mournfully. The very children weep;
And the stern soldier hath his sun-burnt face
Wet with unwonted tears. And see! From forth
The portals of a venerable church,
The mourners following, and the pall upborne
By white-haired ancients of the sorrowing land,
A coffin issues. Needless task, to tell
Whose pallid lineaments--whose clay-cold form
They bear to his long rest. France hath but ONE
So loved, so honored; nay, the world itself
Hath not another.
Who shall fill his place?
Who now, when suffering justice pleads, will hear?
And when humanity with fettered hands
Uplifted cries, who now will nerve the arm?
Who break the silken bands of pleasure, spurn
Ancestral pride, the pomp of courts, and sweet
Domestic love, and bare his bosom in
The generous strife?
Let us recall his acts
And teach them to our sons. Perchance the spark
Extinct, rekindling in some youthful heart,
The hero's spirit, will return to bless.
Who treads Columbia's soil, but knows his blood
Hath mingled with it, freely shed for us.
For injur'd France, impoverish'd and oppress'd,
In freedom's sacred cause, he next stood forth,
And despotism closed her long career.
But wild misrule uprose; and murder's arm
Was bared to strike. Lafayette interposed;--
Chief of a distant armed host, he wrote
And bade the legislative band beware!
Then Jacobinic tigers growled, muttering
A Cæsar! Slay him! At an army's head
He dictates to the Senate! Hush! he comes--
Alone, unarmed, save with the sword of truth,
And beards the monsters in their very den.
They quail, and freedom's sons arouse.
Then thou, poor sufferer, Louis had not died,
Nor hapless Antoinette, thy beauteous neck
Had never fed the greedy guillotine,
Nor yet had Olmutz' dreary dungeon held
That noble man, had ye but trusted him.
O'er the broad page of history, there comes
A meteor glare. Napoleon rises!
Other lights grow dim, or fade away;
But plagues are scattered from the burning trail--
Lafayette's star, tho' hid, moves on unquenched;
O'er fair La Grange it shines with beauteous ray,
And fosters in its beams domestic joy.
The comet sinks beneath Helena's rocks;
The star remains, undimmed, a guide to France.
But hath Columbia no gratitude?
She woos her brave deliverer to her arms!
Again he rides the wave; not now, as once,
The banner'd eagle droops the pensive wing,
But proudly fluttering, o'er his favorite's head
Bears high the starry crest.
He comes! resounds
Along Manhattan's strand and o'er her waves;
The city is unpeopled, thronged the shore,
Gay pennons wave, and cannon roar; men shout, {539}
Children leap up, and aged veterans weep.
Even here he came; within these walls we saw
His face benign, and heard his kindly voice;
And here we blessed him in our artless song,
And raised our tearful eyes, and called him "father;"
And with a father's love he looked on us
And wept. And now HE sleeps in death, 'tis meet
That we should mourn. Would we could seek his grave,
With those the sorrowing ones, he loved the best,
There too would we, the mourning flowers of France,
And drooping willows plant, and kneel and weep.
Take comfort ye his offspring! God's own word
Is pledged to you; seed of a righteous man!
Lift up your downcast hearts, and joy for this,
That he hath died unchanged, as long he lived.
And tho' the perils of his age, outwent
The dangers of his youth, yet he hath stood,
And calm and fearless, tower'd above the storms
That scared the timid and o'erwhelmed the vile.
His fame shall be a light to future times;
But it shall fall in glance portentous,
On tyrants and their leagues; on the oppressed,
In gentle rays of pity and of hope,--
On dark hypocrisy, that hymns the name
Of liberty, to cheat for power, it falls,
Revealing guilt and shame. Meanwhile it shows
The good even as they are, not to be bought
No sold, nor daunted. Such a man was he,
Your father and your friend; nor yours alone;
Whoever bears man's image, he hath lost
A countryman, a father, and a friend!
Thus human nature mourns, and sympathy,
Wide as his generous heart, shall sooth your grief.

DIRGE,

Commemorative of the deaths Gen. Lafayette--of Miss Mary A. Coley, and Miss Helen Stuart Bowers.[2]

Sweep--slowly sweep the chords to notes of woe,
Breathe dirge-like sounds, funereal and low;
For sorrow flows--a strange and mingled tide,
The Beautiful are gone--the Brave hath died!

So good, so dauntless, generous, and kind,
Our Country's Father leaves no peer behind;
But ah our Sisters! must the bright and gay,
Leave the fair earth, and moulder in the clay!

Thus saith the Word, "Be not of little faith;"
Prepare for life,--prepare for early death;
So shall ye calmly part, or peaceful stay,
Be honor'd here, or sweetly pass away.

Sweep--slowly sweep the chords to notes of woe,
Breathe dirge-like sounds, funereal and low,
For sorrow still, will flow in mingled tide,
The BEAUTIFUL are gone--the BRAVE hath died!

[Footnote 2: Miss Bowers (who was a young lady of exquisite personal beauty) had a remarkably peaceful and happy death.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

THE OLD PARISH CHURCH.

MR. WHITE,--The attention of the traveller through Lower Virginia, is often powerfully arrested by the fine old churches in a state of dilapidation and decay, and he reverts with a melancholy feeling to the days when they were built, and the people who worshipped within them. During our last war with Great Britain, these churches served as quarters for our soldiery, and sometimes as stables for the horses of our cavalry.

NUGATOR.

Yon ruined church! how it dimly stands
With its windows sunk and broken--
Of the parent scoff'd at the children's hands,
'Tis a sad and a guilty token.

Thou'rt a noble work and a lofty pile!
With thy spacious, vaulted ceiling;
These massy pillars, and long deep aisle,
Touch the heart with a holy feeling.

'Twas a proud, proud day, when our fathers laid
This stone of the mould'ring corner;
Ah! they did not dream 'twould so soon be made
A jest for the passing scorner.

Cold, cold in death are the hearts which throbb'd
To view thy rising glory--
Are we their sons, who have basely robb'd
What Time had left so hoary?

Long years have pass'd, now silent fane!
Since you rang with the solemn warning,
And years may pass, but for thee, in vain
The return of the Sabbath morning.

Ye slumbering dead! what a change is here,
Where once ye worshipp'd--kneeling--
No sound is heard but my hollow steps, near
Where the full tones once were pealing.

Lo! the sacred desk where your pastor read,
While angels smiled--impending--
There the ceaseless worm hath in silence, fed
With your dust, 'tis slowly blending.

God's tables torn from the sacred wall!
What hand was so rashly daring?
And their whiteness stain'd by the fiend-like scrawl
Of some lost spirit--despairing.

Oh, sight of woe!--the altar gone!
That spot of the Christian union,
Where once ye sought the eternal throne,
With the cup of the lov'd communion.

E'en soldiers here, beneath this roof,
Have held their midnight orgies,
And without hath tramp'd the charger's hoof,
Till the grave well nigh disgorges.

Adieu! adieu! lone house of God!
I shrink from thy profaning--
The impious foot of war hath trod
Where the Prince of Peace was reigning.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

ESTELLE.

I'm standing at thy couch Estelle--
Thy hand in mine--awake my love!--
O'er silent lake and leafy dell
Calm eve is sinking from above;
Wilt thou not look upon the scene
Which from yon casement woos thine eyes?
The light shines beauteously between
The far off mountains where its last blush dies. {540}

I kiss thee sweet--how cold thy lip!--
How pale thy cheek!--thy brow how white!--
And chill as unsunned flowers that dip
Their colorless leaves in dews of night.
In vain--in vain I call on thee--
Thou answerest not that once loved call--
Thou hast no word--no look for me--
How heavily from mine thy hand doth fall!

Yet dearest, while I gaze on thee,
Whom I have loved so long--so well--
It seems not all reality
That I have lost thee quite, Estelle.
I have a sense, though vague and dim,
Of something which my heart hath stilled--
The formless shadow of a dream
That with oppressive thoughts my mind hath filled.

The mist is fading--yet so fair!
Can this be death?--this, beauteous sleep!--
Yes!--Yes!--and they will lay thee where
The earth is damp and worms do creep--
Oh! God!--that reptiles--horrid thought!--
Must banquet on those lovely limbs,
Whose faultless outline, seemeth not
Traced for this world of dark and sullen dreams.

It must be so--the grave--the grave
Relentless swallows all we love,--
Mind--Beauty--Virtue--naught can save--
And yet there is a God above!--
I only know--I only feel
Thou'rt doomed to be the earthworm's prey,
The newt will o'er thy bosom steal,
And loathsome things through thy rich tresses stray.

* * * * *

* * * * *

I hear the sound of many feet--
A moment more, they will be here--
One kiss--one more.--Farewell my sweet,
Let others weep around thy bier,
Who loved thee well--yet loved thee less--
I cannot weep--the fount is dry
In sorrow's utter wilderness--
And with a tearless voiceless thought I die.[1]

[Footnote 1: But as it is, I live and die unheard,
With a most voiceless thought sheathing it as a sword.
[_Childe Harold_, Canto III. Stanza xcvii.

Not a plagiarism but a _coincidence_; a softer term, and more in vogue.]

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LINES.

----through the vigils of the joyless day and the broken dreams of the night, there was a charm upon his soul--a hell within himself; and the curse of his sentence was never to forget.--_Falkland_.

There is a thought that still obtrudes in lone and festive hours;
It falls upon my withered heart like desert winds on flowers:
Oh! read it in my altered brow and in my sunken eye,
I cannot speak it, for the words upon my lips would die.

At evening when I muse alone and calmer visions rise,
Such as will sometimes swim before the veriest wretch's eyes,
That thought will start up suddenly, like spectre from the graves,
And rend the fragile web of joys poor Fancy idly weaves.

In scenes of mirth and revelry I mingle--'tis in vain--
My spirit finds no Lethe in the cup I madly drain;
And when I strive to laugh, like those whose hearts are light and
free--
What ghastly echo of their mirth!--what bitter mockery!

Alas! the silver chord is loosed--the golden bowl is broken;
Remembrance strews my blighted path with many a bitter token;
And on my heart a fearful sign is set forever more--
A burning seal like that they say the wandering Hebrew bore.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

FAREWELL TO ROSA.

Rosa, Rosa, first and fairest,
Best beloved and ever dearest,
How shall I tear myself away,
Nor all the tender thoughts convey,
Which my swoll'n bosom bursts to tell
At bidding thee this last farewell.

But mark not thou the changing cheek,
The swimming eye, and accent weak,
The quivering lip, and pallid brow,
These signs of grief, oh! mark not thou,
Nor see my vain attempt to hide
Love's softness in the look of Pride.

My gloomy look, my mournful sigh,
Thou must not see, thou must not hear,
Nor, Rosa, must thou ask me, why
I brush away the gathered tear;
Thou must not seek the veil to move,
Which honor throws o'er hopeless love.

I know 'twould grieve they gentle heart
To feel that thou art all the cause,
That these unnumbered tears now start
In eyes which were, while hope yet was,
As bright as ever Love lit up,
To beam on Pleasure's sparkling cup.

My peace of mind forever fled,
My hopes of future fame destroyed,
My only tree of promise dead,
Its fruit all blighted ere enjoyed,
And gone the light that cheered my morn
Of life, ere half its hours were worn.

Live thou unconscious of the grief
A hopeless passion wakes in me;
It would not yield my heart relief
To know its pangs were shared by thee;
Let me but feel thy bliss secure,
And know no sorrows threaten thee,
And I can unsubdued endure
All Fortune's malice heaps on me.

But when some wild secluded spot
Shall mark my life's eventless round;
And when an humble lonely cot
My once ambitious hopes shall bound;
Oh! Rosa, let one sigh regret
The hours that I can ne'er forget.

{541}

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

LIONEL GRANBY.

CHAP. II.

For scarcely entering on my prime of age,
Grief marked me for her own.
[_Camoens, by Lord Strangford_.

My education had been superintended exclusively by my mother. Under her intelligent control I had mastered the common rudiments of learning, and had acquired, from my intellectual association with her, a taste for poetry and light philosophy. I read every thing with an earnestness which knew no satiety. In my fifteenth year, my mind was a rude mass of incongruous erudition; possessing learning without accuracy, and information without wisdom. My character derived a rudeness from the unbroken solitude of my studies, taking, like the insect of the forest, the hue of the leaf on which it lived and banqueted. The "Book of Martyrs," awakened into melancholy the sympathies of my heart, and lashed into bitterness the fierce intolerance of my passions. I was religious only in the vengeance of persecution! How often have I felt, beneath the prayers of my mother, the gentleness of a hallowed contrition stealing over my proud heart. Alas! that this contagious sympathy should leave no impression; for I would return to my favorite feast of blood, and arise from its enjoyment a tyrant and a bigot.

The day on which I was sent to school, is deeply marked on my memory. The preparations for my departure, the advice of my mother, the remonstrances of my nurse, and the tears of Scipio, were the gloomy heralds of my utter desolation of heart. Our slaves, as I passed them in the chariot, left their work and ran to bless me. Many of them bade me farewell with struggling emotion, while several of the old ones told me to be of stout heart, and never forget that I was a Granby. I sobbed aloud in the fulness of my heart, when I gave them my hand. The sternness of manhood has never blushed for those tears.

My teacher was a native of Scotland, and officiated as the minister to the parish in which he resided. Like most scholars, he could turn to the example of Socrates for resignation under the rule of the shrillest of all Xantippes. It was the principal weapon he used in his marital patience, but with that success which always made him doubt his own victory. He was a curious compound of pedantry, simplicity, and erudition. His existence was a verb, and his whole life was a dull routine of plain theology and pompous verbosity. He was under many ties of gratitude to our family, and my arrival was greeted by him with demonstrations of pleasure and affection.

I was now almost alone in the world. The silken luxury, the aristocratic pride, and the unsubdued temper in which I had been bred, utterly disqualified me for the democracy in which I was placed. In the solitude of my pride I turned to the resources of study, and by a severity of character I chilled into cold contempt the incipient friendship of many a noble and ingenuous heart. I made but one friend, and to him I clung with affectionate enthusiasm. To Arthur Ludwell I disclosed the secret feelings and desires of my nature. He could reprove me without inflicting pain, and excite me to labor without flattery. His heart was the chosen citadel of every virtue under heaven, and he was wont to bear the whirlwind of my passions without a murmur of resentment. On one occasion I had treated him with excessive rudeness. He bore my pride with his accustomed fortitude; and that night, after I had retired to bed, he entered my room, and thinking me asleep, he bent over my face and wept like a child. Could I ask a keener reproach? Could I demand a better proof of the purity and delicacy of his affection?

In this school there was a student named Pilton, the only son of one who had been many years before my birth, an overseer on the plantation of my father, and who had amassed, by economy and industry, a large fortune. He was a rude, vulgar, and unfeeling boy, with a harsh countenance and coarsely built frame. His hair was a dingy red, and his frame uncouth and repulsive; yet he possessed a genius which could grasp every difficulty, and an intellect which could master the asperities of every science. I hated him with a vindictive and uncompromising energy. I did not envy him, for I could not so far disgrace the dignity of that passion (the cousin-german of school-boy emulation) as to extend its malevolence to such a being. My feelings towards him, were disgust and unalterable contempt. He was frank without liberality, and candid without honor. Deceit flung its patched mantle over the chronic vice of his character, and duplicity ruled a heart in which nature had thrown neither fire, delicacy, nor elevation. From the influence of his mind he had attached to himself a considerable party of the timid, irresolute, and indolent; yet he shrunk from the merciless venom of my scorn. Though a coward he could display the courage of necessity, and would sometimes retort my sarcasms with severity and firmness. Shortly before our separation, we had quarrelled with implacable fierceness. I called him a coward, and an ill-bred vagrant. He replied to my attack in these words, which ever in after-life, writhed around my memory in a cold and scorpion-like embrace:

"Mr. Granby! I know the history of your proud family. You are seventeen years of age. Do you not dread the mystery of that number, which made your grandfather a premature dotard? Beware! I am revenged. You will live a lunatic and die a driveller."

I was silent under this fearful curse. The narrative of my grandfather's precocious youth and imbecile adolescence, his lofty chivalry and stubborn pride, which I had often drank from the garrulity of my nurse, was borne before me in a full and freshening tide. I controlled my struggling passions, and quitted my adversary humbled more by the agony of my own feelings, than excited by the bitterness of his retort. This scene constituted an era in the history of my hate. Revenge hourly lashed itself into frenzy; and amid the bustle of the day and the solitude of the night, I never ceased from the pursuit of an opportunity to gratify the deeply seated passion of my heart. I never forgave him! I banqueted on that merciless revenge, which dripping in a steady and uniform course through the recesses of my heart, formed a cold and impenetrable stalactite of withering malignity. It was a treasured, honored, and hoarded hate which planted itself firmly in my bosom, and which eagerly longed for its time of fruition. Even now, when time has worn down the fierceness of my life and softened into resignation the frown of destiny, {542} this passion blooms on, with more freshness and constancy than the mistletoe which scatters its wild luxuriance around the blasted and ruined oak.