| What scene is here? The dying moan, the wailing cry Come on the gusty blast that speeds so swiftly by; The river rolls heavy as it struggles with dead, Who writhe in their blood ere the spirit hath fled— And chafed by the winds in the wrath of the storm, Its red clotted waters flow tortured and warm. Thousands lie here; kindred and aliens in race, They are rigid and fixed in death's cold embrace; They clench and they cling in the last dying grasp, And the living, the dead, reluctantly clasp: Or, fearing a friend in his last cold embrace, They spurn him beneath to his dark dreary place. A many-voiced moan now saddens the air, Whose tones are all blent with wild curses and prayer; And the deep hollow moan that wails o'er the flood, As spirits pass away in storm and in blood. In the sad welkin tremble heart-rending shrieks, So piercing, that startled, the deep echo speaks. There's mirth that's of madness, one laughs in his fear, And prayer thrills in tones of the wildest despair; And the deep solemn curse from the blasphemer stern, Who weeps not, who wails not, tho' his dying soul burn. Oh spirits pass away so sad in their strife, That the living still cling more closely to life: With unearthliest cries, grim phantasied shapes Brood o'er the senses ere the spirit escapes; On the wings of the wind how swift speeds the blast, With pinions all viewless it fleets as the past;— Oh say, does it bear the spirits that have fled, In the last bitter strife, ere the dying be dead? To the last dying sense comes a vision more dread, For Death flaps his wings o'er the fields of the dead: His deep hollow tones called away and away Spirits immortal, disengaged from their clay; And rearing aloft his deep sable plume, On wings of the wind rose in shadow and gloom, Still bearing them on with invisible trace, As he swept the broad fields of infinite space— Whilst Terror, all wild in his deep, horrid lair, Made sad with his moans the invisible air. The night wind sighs drear, in its last dying breath; The clouds fleet away, like the shadows of death, From the face of the moon, whose sepulch'red light Steals softly upon the dark bosom of night,— As the last smile of hope, ere the spirit hath fled, Lingers tranquil and bright o'er the face of the dead. |
ALPHA.
The lines which follow ought to be preserved in a more permanent form than the columns of a newspaper. They were written and published before Mr. Johnston's lamentable death. It will be recollected that he perished by the explosion of a steamboat, ascending the Red River.
After the above was penned, the melancholy intelligence reached us of Mr. Davis's death. Patriotism will mourn his loss, and the Columbian Muse hang a garland over his tomb.
From the Augusta (Geo.) Chronicle.
The following beautiful parody, which we met with in the hands of a respected friend, and were permitted by him to take a copy for publication, is attributed to the Hon. Warren R. Davis of South Carolina—a gentleman no less distinguished, admired and beloved for his many and striking literary acquirements, private virtues, social qualities, fine manners, polished, varied and brilliant wit and vivid fancy,—than for his ardent patriotism, open and fearless honesty, independence, eloquence, and disinterested devotion to his gallant and glorious state. It is said to have been written, on the sportive suggestion of the moment, as a contribution to the Album of the talented, accomplished and witty lady of the Hon. Mr. Johnston of the United States Senate from Louisiana. The old air of "Roy's Wife of Aldavalloch" is, we think, one of the most rare and beautiful specimens of that class of Scottish music, which was probably introduced from Italy, in the time of the brilliant but unfortunate Queen Mary.
PARODY.
| Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The fairest flower that ever bloomed In southern sun or gay savannah.1 The Inca's blood flows in her veins—2 The Inca's soul her bright eyes lighten; Child of the sun, like him she reigns, To cheer our hopes, our sorrows brighten. Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The fairest flower that ever bloomed In southern sun or gay savannah. Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! She hath a way to win all hearts, And bow them to the shrine of Anna! Her mind is radiant with the lore Of ancient and of modern story— And native wit of richer store Bedecks her with its rainbow glory. Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! She hath a way to charm all hearts, And bow them to the shrine of Anna! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The hapless bard who sings her praise, Now worships at the shrine of Anna? Twas such a vision, bright but brief, In early youth his true heart rended, Then left it like a fallen leaf, On life's most rugged thorn suspended. Johnston's wife of Louisiana! Johnston's wife of Louisiana! The hapless bard who sings her praise Wept tears of blood for such an Anna! |