ORIGINAL POETRY.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
I have been permitted to copy the original verses which I send you, from a young lady's album. They were written by a gentleman of literary merit, whose modesty will probably be somewhat startled at seeing himself in print. I could not resist the opportunity however, of adorning the columns of your first number with so fine a specimen of native genius. According to my poor taste, and humble judgment in such matters, these lines are beautiful. They are tinged with the deep misanthropy of Byron, and yet have all the flowing smoothness and vivacity of Moore. Shall it be said after reading such poetry, that the muses are altogether neglected in the Ancient Dominion—that there is no genuine ore in our intellectual mines which with a little labor may be refined into pure gold? Shall it be longer contended that we are altogether a nation of talkers, and that politics, summer barbecues and horse-racing are our all engrossing and exclusive recreations. In truth, is not this the very land of poetry! Our colonial and revolutionary history is itself fruitful in the materials of song; and even our noble rivers—our lofty mountains—our vast and impenetrable forests—and our warm and prolific sun, are so many sublime sources of inspiration. With respect to the belle passion,—that has in all ages, climates and countries, constituted one of the strongest incitements to poetical genius. The imagination, warmed by impressions of feminine beauty and innocence, at once takes wing, and wanders through regions of thought and melancholy—investing the object of its idolatry with attributes and perfections which more properly belong to a purer state of being. Whether the philosophy of the subjoined stanzas is equal to their harmony, I leave to your readers to decide. The voluntary sacrifice of the heart at the shrine of prudence is doubtless heroic; but there are few lovers, and especially of the poetic temperament, who are willing to submit to "brokenness of heart" rather than encounter the hazard of sharing with a beloved object the "cup of sorrow." Whether, moreover, the ingenious author was actually breathing in eloquent earnestness his own "private griefs," or amusing himself only by the creations of fancy,—I am not prepared to determine. One thing I do know, however—that the charming nymph in whose album these lines were written, though not "too dear to love," possesses a heart both "warm and soft," and is in every respect worthy of all the admiration which the most romantic lover could bestow.
H.
Lines written in a Young Lady's Album.
Air—"The Bride."
| I'd offer thee this heart of mine, If I could love thee less; But hearts as warm, as soft as thine, Should never know distress. My fortune is too hard for thee, 'Twould chill thy dearest joy: I'd rather weep to see thee free, Than win thee to destroy. I leave thee in thy happiness, As one too dear to love! As one I'll think of but to bless, Whilst wretchedly I rove. But oh! when sorrow's cup I drink, All bitter though it be, How sweet to me 'twill be, to think It holds no drop for thee. Then fare thee well! An exile now, Without a friend or home, With anguish written on my brow, About the world I'll roam. For all my dreams are sadly o'er— Fate bade them all depart,— And I will leave my native shore, In brokenness of heart. |
| S. |
Our young correspondent "M'C." will perceive that his poem has been altered in some of its expressions, and perhaps not altogether to his liking. Our object has been, not to damp the aspirations of genius, but to prune its luxuriance. The ardour of youth too often betrays into extravagance, which can only be corrected by cultivation and experience. We hope that he will persevere in his invocations to the muse,—believing that the time will come when she will amply reward him by her smiles.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SERENADE.
| Sweet lady, awake from thy downy pillow! Moonlight is gleaming all bright on yon billow, Night-flowers are blooming,—south winds are blowing So gently, they stir not the smooth waters flowing. Wake lady! wake from thy gentle slumber, Heav'n's gems are all sparkling, uncounted in number, How calm, yet how brilliant those beautiful skies, Which the wave glances back like the beam of thine eyes. Wake, dearest! wake thou, my heart's fond desire! All trembling these fingers sweep over the lyre, This bosom is heaving with love's tender throes, And my song, like the swan's last, is wild at the close. Yet thou wilt not list to me,—then lady, farewell! My lyre shall be hush'd with this last mournful swell; All lonely and desolate,—onward I roam; My bosom is void!—the wide world is my home! |
| M'C. |
It is with much pleasure that the publisher is enabled to present in the first number of the "Messenger" the following poetical contributions, not heretofore published, from the pen of Mrs. Sigourney, of Hartford, Connecticut. There are few literary readers on either side of the Potomac, who are not familiar with some of the productions at least, of this accomplished authoress. The purity of her sentiments, and the strength and mellowness of her versification, will remind the reader of the highly gifted and almost unrivalled Hemans.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
COLUMBUS BEFORE THE UNIVERSITY OF SALAMANCA.
"Columbus found, that in advocating the spherical figure of the earth, he was in danger or being convicted not merely of error,—but even of heterodoxy."—Washington Irving.
| St. Stephen's cloister'd hall was proud In learning's pomp that day; For there, a rob'd and stately crowd Press'd on, in long array. A mariner, with simple chart Confronts that conclave high, While strong ambition stirs his heart, And burning thoughts, in wonder part From lip and sparkling eye. What hath he said?—With frowning face, In whisper'd tones they speak, And lines upon their tablets trace, That flush each ashen cheek: The Inquisition's mystic doom Sits on their brows severe, And bursting forth in vision'd gloom, Sad heresy from burning tomb, Groans on the startled ear. Courage, thou Genoese!—Old Time Thy brilliant dream shall crown; Yon western hemisphere sublime, Where unshorn forests frown, The awful Andes' cloud-wrapp'd brow, The Indian hunter's bow, Bold streams untam'd by helm or prow, And rocks of gold and diamond, thou To thankless Spain shalt show. Courage, world-finder!—Thou hast need!— In fate's unfolding scroll, Dark woes, and ingrate-wrongs I read, That rack the noble soul. On!—On!—Creation's secrets probe, Then drink thy cup of scorn, And wrapp'd in fallen Cesar's robe, Sleep, like that master of the globe, All glorious,—yet forlorn. |
| L. H. S. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
INTEMPERANCE.
| Parent!—who with speechless feeling O'er thy cradled treasure bent, Every year, new claims revealing, Yet thy wealth of love unspent,— Hast thou seen that blossom blighted, By a drear, untimely frost? All thy labor unrequited? Every glorious promise lost? Wife!—with agony unspoken, Shrinking from affliction's rod, Is thy prop,—thine idol broken,— Fondly trusted,—next to God? Husband!—o'er thy hope a mourner, Of thy chosen friend asham'd, Hast thou to her burial borne her, Unrepentant,—unreclaimed? Child!—in tender weakness turning To thy heaven-appointed guide, Doth a lava-poison burning, Tinge with gall, affection's tide? Still that orphan-burden bearing, Darker than the grave can show, Dost thou bow thee down despairing, To a heritage of woe? Country!—on thy sons depending, Strong in manhood, bright in bloom, Hast thou seen thy pride descending Shrouded,—to th' unhonor'd tomb? Rise!—on eagle-pinion soaring,— Rise!—like one of Godlike birth,— And Jehovah's aid imploring, Sweep the Spoiler from the earth. |
| L. H. S. |
The following beautiful lines have been very generally ascribed to the pen of the Hon. R. H. Wilde, a member of the present House of Representatives from the State of Georgia. We do not know that Mr. W. has ever confessed the authorship, but we think that they would not discredit even their supposed origin. We have had the pleasure to read some of Mr. Wilde's brilliant speeches in Congress, and we are confident that they are the emanations of a mind deeply imbued with the spirit of poesy. Not that we thence necessarily infer that these lines are the genuine offspring of his muse—but merely allude to the character of his parliamentary efforts, in connexion with the common opinion that the poetry is from the same source. One of our present objects is to give what we conceive to be a correct version of these admired lines; for in almost all the copies we have seen, we have been struck with several gross errors, alike injurious to their sense and harmony. Not the least remarkable of these errors has been the uniform substitution of Tempè for some other word,—thereby imputing to the author the geographical blunder of converting the delightful and classic valley of Greece, into a desert shore or strand. We have no doubt that Tampa is the word originally written by the author, there being a bay of that name in Florida sometimes described on the maps as the bay of Espiritu Santo.
MY LIFE IS LIKE THE SUMMER ROSE.
| My life is like the summer rose That opens to the morning sky, And ere the shades of evening close, Is scattered on the ground to die; Yet on that rose's humble bed The softest dews of night are shed As though she wept such waste to see, But none shall drop one tear for me! My life is like the autumn leaf Which trembles in the moon's pale ray, Its hold is frail, its date is brief, Restless;—and soon to pass away: Yet when that leaf shall fall and fade The parent tree will mourn its shade, The wind bemoan the leafless tree, But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the print, which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand, Soon as the rising tide shall beat Their trace will vanish from the sand; Yet, as if grieving to efface All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none shall thus lament for me. |
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO MY INFANT DAUGHTER EVE.
By Mrs. D. P. Brown.
| Fair little flow'r, may no rude storm Impair thy early bloom,— No cank'rous grief that smile deform, Or antedate its doom. In soul be ever as thou art Mild, merciful, and kind, Date all enjoyments from the heart, All conquests from the mind. The body is an empty thing, Frail, worthless, weak, and vain; The mind alone can pleasure bring, Or soothe the bed of pain. What is the gaudy casket, when The priceless jewel's gone? Such to the eyes of noble men, Is beauty's charm alone. Fashion may decorate the brow, Fortune the eye allure, But nothing worldly can bestow Those treasures which endure. Then fix, my child, thy hopes above; All earthly joys deceive: Rest solely on a Saviour's love, My gentle daughter Eve. |
Philadelphia.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO MY CHILDREN—ON NEW-YEAR.
By Mrs. D. P. Brown.
| Another year has wing'd its flight, And left us where it found us, In health, affection, and delight, With every charm around us. The overseeing Eye of Heaven Has guided, guarded, cheer'd us, Its bounteous hand has freely given, Its bounteous love endeared us. Time shall roll on, and still each year Enhance our mutual pleasure,— Tho' fortune frown on our career The heart shall be our treasure: And when at last stern Fate's decree Our kindred souls shall sever, In regions of eternity They'll join in joy forever. |
Philadelphia.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MUSINGS—By the Author of Vyvyan.
| A patchwork of disjointed things— Of grave and gay imaginings.—The Visionary. |
| My thoughts resemble scattered leaves, Which Fancy, like the Sybil, weaves, Just as may suit her wayward whim, Into a many colored dream. * * * * * A tablet resteth on my knee— The gift of one most dear to me; Upon its fair unwritten face My pencil now and then may trace The flitting visions of my mind, Like cloud-forms varying in the wind— Too incoherent, wild and roving, To weave into a song of loving— Such as might suit the gentle ear Of one—I wish to heaven were here. All things breathe loveliness—the sky Looks on me like my lady's eye, Clear—beautiful as crystal blue And darkling in its own bright hue. The faint air, sighing from the south, Steals sweetly o'er my cheek and brow, As late I felt and fancy now The breath of her own rosy mouth When, in her eagerness to look Into the pages of my book She stood by, o'er my shoulder leaning, In innocent but simple meaning. * * * * * Amid the voiceless wild Of the ancestral forest, I feel even as a child, Whose pleasure is the surest When most by wonderment beguiled. A lovely lake before me sleeps, Whose quiet on my spirit creeps— Around and o'er me, solemn trees Of the eternal forest, dart Their wildly straggling boughs athwart The sky—with their rich panoplies Of varied foliage. Here and there A withered trunk by storms laid bare, Spectre like—whitening in the air, Spreads wide and far its skeleton limbs, Where, up the creeping verdure climbs, And wreathes its draperies, ere they fall, In festoons so fantastical. * * * * * Here moves the Genius of Romance, With lofty mien and eagle glance— No plumed casque adorns his brow— No glittering falchion does he wield— Nor lance bears he, nor 'scutcheoned shield. Nor among fallen columns low, Behold him crouch and muse upon The shattered forms of sculptured stone— Fair classic marbles, which recall The glories of an ancient time— Its pride—its splendor and its fall— Such things belong not to our clime. The Genius of our Solitude Stalks forth in hunter's garb arrayed, A child of nature—wild and rude— Yet not averse to gentle mood: The same high spirit, undismayed, Amid the stormy battles roar, As when he wooes his dusky maid, Beside some dim lake's lonely shore; Or paddles his skiff at eventide, O'er Niagara's waters wide. * * * * * 'Tis sweet to sit alone, and muse In such a spot as this— Thus imperceptibly to lose In dim, imagined bliss, The vulgar thoughts and cares that shroud The spirits of the busy crowd— That chain their grovelling minds to earth And wretched things of little worth. Years seem not many, since a child, I loved to haunt this pathless wild, And wearied lay me down to rest Upon some broad rock's mossy breast, Lulled by a dreamy listless thought, From loneliness and quiet caught— Or, prying with most curious eye Into dark hollows, to descry Some robber haunt or hidden grot, Where haply it might be my lot, Like Alla-Ad-Deen, to find a treasure Of gems and jewels without measure. But what a change is wrought since then! I've mingled with the world and men, Who scoff at boyhood's guiltless joys, Yet scorn them but for greater toys. Well—let them mar their health for fame, And waste their days, to gain a name, Built on the rabble's wretched praise, Whose voice awhile may sink or raise, But cannot rescue from the lot Old Time, the despot, hath assigned Impartially to all earth's kind. Such record vain I envy not, Nor burn with mightier men to mate— The followers of a fiercer fate, Who trample on all human good To win awards least understood. Such is renown reaped with the sword— Such glory! Empty, fatal word, That lures men on through fire and flood— Through scenes of rapine, crime and blood, To write in history's page, a tale, O'er which their fellow man grows pale. Could half the tears they cause to flow Bedew that page—how few could read The blotted record of each deed, Which laid the brave by thousands low And broke more living hearts with wo, That ONE might be what good men hate, And fools and knaves miscal "THE GREAT." |