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.
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

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.