late hour?" said my father. It was but eight o'clock; but remember we
were in the country. I went out of the room, and did not hear the
answer. I was met at the hall door by a gentleman, whom I ushered in.
My father accosted him, and was very proud and very happy to see Col.
H----d. He was then introduced to the members of the family; "and this
lady I think you are already acquainted with," continued my father, as
he presented cousin Caroline, who had hung back. The Colonel
smiled,--Caroline blushed, but she smiled too. What is all this about,
thought I. "Come, sir, be seated," quoth my father. The Colonel bowed,
thanked him, and placed himself forthwith in my chair, right beside
Caroline. Now it is true Caroline had two sides, and her left side was
as dear to me as her right; but then that side was next to the wall,
and she sat so near to it that there was no edging a chair in without
incommoding her. So I was fain to look out for other quarters, and
found them next to my mother, whence I looked the colonel right in the
face. He was not a handsome man, but a very noble looking one. He was
rather above the common height, somewhat thin, but his carriage very
erect. His complexion was dark, but ruddy dark, the hue of health and
manliness; his forehead broad; so much so as to make the lower part of
his visage appear contracted, and rather long. The expression of his
features when at rest, was stern, and even haughty; perhaps from the
habit of command, for his _had_ been a soldier's life, and his title
was won on the battle field; but when in conversation, there was an air
of great good nature over his whole countenance, and his smile was very
winning. Cousin Caroline thought it so.
"The road to your farm is rather intricate, my good sir," said the
colonel, as he took his seat, "and though I had a pretty good chart of
the country, (here he looked at Caroline and smiled one of those
winning smiles, but Caroline did not, or would not see him,) I was so
stupid as to miss the way, for when I reached the cross roads, instead
of taking the right I directed the servant to the left, and moved on
some time in the wrong direction without meeting a human being of whom
to make inquiry. At length I had the good fortune to encounter a
gentleman on horseback, who corrected my error, adding the satisfactory
assurance, that I had gone at least four miles in the opposite
direction to that which I desired to go; so that, though I set out
betimes, it was thus late before I reached here."
"Well, I wonder!" cried my mother.
"Then colonel you must be sadly in want of refreshment," said my
father. "My dear"--
"Not at all so, my dear sir. I beg you will give yourselves no trouble
on my account. I assure you"--
"Sit still, colonel, I beg of you," interrupted my father, as the
former rose to urge his remonstrance.--"Sit still, sir; trouble indeed;
we'll have supper directly, and I don't care if I nibble a little
myself."
So the colonel gave up the contest, but when he reseated himself, he
perceived Caroline was gone; she had slipped out of the room with my
mother. The colonel had a very nice supper that night, and he did it
justice. Who prepared it, think you? my mother? No, for she returned to
the room in two minutes after she left it. I knew who prepared it, and
so did the colonel, or he made a shrewd guess; for, when Caroline
returned, he gave her a look that spoke volumes of thankfulness, and of
such exquisite fondness that it made the blood mount to her very
forehead.
A week passed away, and colonel H----d remained a constant guest at my
father's; and though I could not but like and admire him, his conduct
was a source of great annoyance to me, for no sooner did Caroline make
her appearance in the breakfast room in the morning than he posted
himself next to her; and then they took such long walks together, and
would spend so many hours in riding about the country, and they never
asked me to accompany them, so that Caroline had as well have been in
town again, for the opportunity I had of conversing with her. The
result of all this is, of course, plain to the reader; and it was soon
formally announced that on the third day of the succeeding month
Caroline was to become the bride of the wealthy and gallant Colonel
H----d, and accompany him forthwith to his distant home, for his
residence was in the state of Georgia. I wept bitter tears, and sobbed
as if my heart would break as I laid all lonely in my bed that night on
which this latter piece of intelligence had been communicated by my
father, until sleep, the comforter of the wretched, extended to me the
bliss of oblivion. "Blessings on the man who invented sleep," says
friend Sancho--blessings, aye blessings indeed, on all bountiful nature
who, while she gives rest to the wearied body bestows consolation on
the grieving heart, lulls into gentle calm the storm of the passions,
plucks from power its ability and even its wish to oppress, and hushes
in poverty the sense of its weakness and its degradation. My fate has
not been more adverse than that of the generality of men, but "take it
all in all," the happiest portion of my existence has been spent in
sleep. Why did I weep? The being whom I loved best on earth was about
to be wedded to the worthy object of her choice,--a choice that
affection sanctioned and reason might well approve; and even to my
young observation it was apparent that while she gave, she was enjoying
happiness. There was pleasure in the beaming of her sparkling eyes,
there was joy in the dimples of her rosy smile. The very earth on which
she trod seemed springing to her step, and the air she breathed to be
pure and balmy. Could she be happy and I feel miserable? and that
misery growing too, out of the very source of her happiness. Yes; even
so unmixed, so absorbing was my selfishness. _My_ selfishness! the
selfishness of humanity; for even as the rest of my fellow men so was,
and so am I. I thought of the many hours of delight I had enjoyed in
her presence, of the thousand daily kindnesses I had experienced at her
hand. She alone was wont to partake of my youthful joys, to sympathize
with my boyish griefs; it was her praise that urged me to exertion, the
fear of her censure that restrained me from mischief. And all this was
to pass away, and to pass with her presence too. Never more was my
heart to drink in the sweet light of her eyes; never more would her
soft voice breathe its music in my ear. I felt that I dwelt no longer
in her thoughts; I believed my very image would soon perish from her
memory. Such were the bitter thoughts that weighed down my mind.
I go on spinning out this portion of my tale, no doubt very tediously,
and my readers will perhaps despair of my ever arriving at the end; but
patience, I shall get there by and by. "Bear with me yet a little
while." It is that I shrink from what I have undertaken to narrate,
that I wander into digression; for whatever effect it may have on
others, whose only interest in it will arise from momentary excitement,
on me the fearful casualty I shall describe, has imposed "the grief of
years." Many a pang has my heart experienced in my pilgrimage through
this weary world, and some grievous enough to sustain; time and
occupation, however, have afforded their accustomed remedy, and scars
only are left to mark where the wounds have been. But this, though
inflicted in boyhood's springy days, is festering now; aye now, when
the very autumn of manhood is passed, and the winter of age is
congealing the sources of feeling and of life.
The wedding day was drawing nigh. One little week remained of the
appointed time; and a joyous man, no doubt, was colonel H----d, as hour
after hour winged its flight, and each diminished the space that lay
betwixt him and his assured felicity. Poor weak creatures that we are,
whose brief history is but a record of hope and disappointment, ever
deceived by the mirage of happiness that glitters afar in the desert of
life, and recedes from before us as we pursue, till outworn, we sink
into death with our thirst unslaked, our desires ungratified. One
little week remained. What matters the brevity of time when a moment is
fraught with power to destroy. Behold the gallant ship with tightened
cordage and outspread sails, dashing from her prow the glittering spray
as she dances on the leaping wave to the music of the breeze; cheerful
faces crowd her deck, for she is homeward bound from a distant land;
and now her port is almost reached, a hidden rock has pierced her side,
the eternal sea rolls over the sunken wreck. The warrior has charged
and broken the foe; the shout of victory rings in his ears, and fancy
twines the laurel round his brow; but treachery lurks in his armed
array, and the clarion of conquest sounds the note of defeat. The
mighty city with its thousand domes, its marble palaces, and its
crowded marts, over which ages have urged their onward flight, and
still it grew in wealth and strength, has felt the earthquake's shock.
Black mouldering ruins and a sullen sulphurous lake are left to mark
the spot where once its "splendors shone." And the heart, the human
heart, with its high aspirations, and its treacherous whisperings of
unmixed joys, its blindness of trust in coming events, its strange
forgetfulness of the hours gone by, its sunny morning of boundless
hope, its stormy night of dark despair.
My father's house was situated on an elevated spot, commanding an
extensive view of the broad Potomac; from its front to the bank of the
river, a distance of some hundred yards, the ground descended in a
gentle slope terminating in a sheer precipice, and down, down "a
fearful depth below," rolled on the rapid waters. The bank was composed
of vast masses of rock, between the crevices of which pushed forth
gnarled and jagged trees of various kinds, shooting their moss-covered
branches in every direction, and hugged in strict and stifling embrace
by huge vines, that looked like the monster boas, of a preadamate
world. The summit was lined with a dense growth of underwood, that hid
from the passer by the awful chasm upon whose very margin he might be
unconciously standing. As the main road (which ran parallel to the
course of the river) laid upwards of a mile from the rear of the
dwelling house, and was, besides being generally in very bad order,
very uninteresting in its character, we were in the habit of using for
the purpose of visiting some of our neighbors, a path that ran along
and was dangerously near to the verge of the precipice, but which had
been travelled so long and so often without accident, that we had
ceased to think of even the possibility of any occurring. It was a
bright sunshiny morning, the blue sky studded with those massy rolling
clouds whose purple shades give such strong relief to the fleecy white,
and cheat the fancy into portraying a thousand resemblances; ancient
castles with frowning battlements, mighty ships resting beneath their
crowded canvass, bright fairy isles, where a poet's soul would delight
to wander, dark yawning caverns, in whose undreamt of depths the pent
up spirits of the damned might be "imagined howling." Pardon, pardon!
but sea and sky have always set me raving. It was at the breakfast
table that I informed my father I would ride over to aunt Diana's and
see if they were all well.--"The weather is so fine, and I have not
seen our good aunt for some time. I will ride with you; that is, if
you'll let me, cousin Harry," said Caroline, as if it were not a
delight to me to have her company. The colonel, too, proposed to join
us, and we went to get ourselves in readiness. We were soon on the
road, and away we cantered, full of health and youth and spirits. The
breeze came fresh and soft from the surface of the waters, and played
among Caroline's curls and revelled on her cheek, as if to gather the
odors of the rose, where its beauteous hue was so richly spread. We
paid our visit, partook of aunt Diana's good things, and set off on our
return, amid her protestations against our hurry. Caroline was riding
on a nice little mare that had been bred on the farm, and had always
been the pet of the family; as gentle and as playful as a lamb, but at
the same time full of spirit. We had arrived at a part of the road
where the precipice (now on our right hand) was highest. I was in
front, Caroline next to and behind me; a hare crossed my path: "take
care my boy," cried Colonel H----d, "that, you know, is said to be a
bad omen." Scarcely had he spoken when my horse started, and wheeled
short round; the mare partook of his fright, swerved half to the left,
and reared bolt upright. "Slack your rein and seize the mane,
Caroline," I screamed in agony. It was too late; the mare struggled,
and fell backwards. Oh, God! A shriek, a rushing sound
* * * * *
I entered the chamber where innocence and beauty had been wont to
repose; around me were the trappings of the grave; the cold white
curtains with their black crape knots, the shrouded mirror, the
scattered herbs--and stretched upon the bed motionless, lay a form--the
form of her whose living excellence was unsurpassed. My father came in;
he took my hand, led me to the bed, and gently removed the sheet from
the marble face. Oh, death, thou art indeed a conqueror!
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
SONNET,
WRITTEN ON THE BLUE RIDGE IN VIRGINIA.
Gigantic sov'reign of this mountain-chain,
Proud Otter Peak! as gazing on thee now
I mark the sun its parting splendor throw
Athwart thy summit hoar--I sigh with pain
To think thus soon I needs must turn again
And seek man's bustling haunts! What if my brow
No longer wear the signs of sorrow's plough,
Doth not my heart its traces still retain,
And I still hate the crowd?--Yes! it is so,
And scenes alone such as surround me here--
These deep'ning shades--thy torrents loud and clear--
Yon half-hid cot--the cattle's plaintive low--
The raven's cry, and the soft whispering breeze,
Have now the pow'r this aching breast to please.
* * *
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
STANZAS,
WRITTEN AT THE WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS OF VIRGINIA.
With spirits like the slacken'd strings
Of some neglected instrument--
Or rather like the wearied wings
Of a lone bird by travel spent;
Ah! how should I expect to find
Midst scenes of constant revelry,
A solace for a troubled mind,
A cure for my despondency?--
There was a time when mirth's glad tone
And pleasure's smile had charms for me--
But disappointment had not strown
My pathway then with misery:
Health then was mine--and friends sincere--
Requited love--and prospects bright--
Nor dreamt I that a day so clear
Could ever set in such a night!
* * *
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
TO ---- ---- OF THE U. S. NAVY.
Tell me--for thou hast stood on classic ground,
If there the waters flow more bright and clear,
And if the trees with thicker foliage crowned,
Are lovelier far than those which blossom here?
Say is it true, in green unfading bowers,
That there the wild bird sings her sweetest lay?
And that a light, more beautiful than ours,
Lends richer glories to expiring day?
Wooed by Italian airs, does woman's cheek
With purer color glow, than in our land?
Or does her eye more eloquently speak,
Or with a softer grace her form expand?
Does music there, with power to us unknown,
Breathe o'er the heart a far diviner spell?
And with a sweeter, more entrancing tone,
The thrilling strains of love and glory swell?
Tell me if thou in thought didst dearer prize
Thy home, than all that Italy could give?
Didst thou regret that her resplendent skies
Should smile on men as slaves content to live?
Didst thou, when straying in her cities fair,
Or in her groves of bloom, regret that here
No perfumes mingle with the passing air?
And was thine own, thy native land, less dear?
Or didst thou turn where proudly in the breeze
America's star-spangled flag was flying?
The flag that o'er thee waved on the high seas;
With conscious heart exultingly replying,
"No slothful land of dreaming ease is ours,
Her soil is only trodden by the free--
Less rich in music, poetry, and flowers,
Still, still she is the land of all for me!"
E. A. S.
_Lombardy, Va._
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
MUSINGS II--_By the Author of Vyvyan_.
The sea is in the broad, the narrow streets
Ebbing and flowing.--------_Rogers_.
I loved her from my boyhood--she to me
Was as a fairy city of the heart,
Rising like water columns from the sea.
_Childe Harold_, Canto IV. Stanza xviii.
There is, far in a foreign clime,
Alas! no longer free--
A city famed in olden time
As queen of all the sea;
Still fair but fallen from her prime--
For such is destiny.
There motley masque and princely ball
Make gay the merry carnival,
And all the night some serenade
Steals sweetly from the calm Lagune,
While many a dark eyed loving maid
Is wooed in secret neath the moon.
And swiftly o'er the noiseless tide
Gondolas dark, like spectres, glide
Neath archways deep and bridges fair,
Temples and marble palaces,
Adorned with jutting balconies,
And dim arcades of beauty rare.
There's naught that meets the wondering eye,
From the wave that kisses the landing stair
To the sculptured range in the azure sky,[1]
But wears a wild unearthly air,
And every voice that echoes among
Those phantomlike halls, breathes the spell of song.
The rudest Barcarolli's cry,
Heard faint and far o'er Adria's waves,
Might cheat the listener of a sigh--
So sad the farewell which it leaves,
When sinking on the ear it dies
Along the borders of the skies.
Oh! Venice! Venice! couldst thou be
Still wond'rous fair and even as free!
How peerless were thy regal halls!--
How glorious were thy seagirt walls!--
But foreign banners flaunt thy tide,
And chains have tamed thy lion's pride.
Thy flag is furled upon the sea,
Thy sceptre shivered on the land,
And many a spirit mourns for thee
Beyond the Lido's barren strand:
Better thy towers were sunk below
The level of Old Ocean's flow.
Fair city of the fairest clime,
Sad change hath come o'er thee--
The spirit voice of olden time
Is wailing o'er thy sea;
And matin bell and vesper chime
Seem knelling for the free
Who reared thy standard o'er the wave
And spurned the chains that now enslave.
[Footnote 1: The tops of many of the buildings are ornamented with a
range of statues.]
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA TO HER NATIVE MUSE.
A parent's eye, sweet mountain maid,
Hath seen thee rise in Sylvan shade;
And patient, lent attentive ear
Thy first, wild minstrelsy to hear:
And thou hast breathed some artless lays,
That well deserve the meed of praise;
For, nursed by spirits bold and free,
Thy notes should breathe of Liberty.
Yet some who scan thy numbers wild,
Inquire if thou art Fancy's child,
Or some impostor, duly taught
To weave with skill the borrow'd thought.
Then list, my child! Experience sage
May well direct thy guileless age.
Breathe not thy notes with spirit tame,
Nor pilfer, from an honor'd name,
The praise that crowns the sons of fame.
Be not by imitation taught,
To blend with thine, the vagrant thought,
From Britain's polish'd minstrels caught.
Full oft my mountain echoes tell,
How Byron's genius fram'd a spell,
Which reason vainly seeks to quell:
Did not his spirit cast a gloom
On all who shared his adverse doom,
E'en from the cradle to the tomb?
With intellectual treasures bless'd,
With misanthropic thoughts possess'd,
Their sway alternate fired his breast.
He pour'd the lava stream alone,
In torrents from that burning zone,
Which girt his bosom's fiery throne.
Enough! on his untimely bier
Affection shed no hallow'd tear--
He claim'd no love--he own'd no fear.
And she,[1] whose light poetic tread
Scarce sways the dewdrop newly shed
Upon the rose-bud's infant head;
Most meet to be the tender nurse
Of virtue, wounded by the curse
Of passion's fierce and lawless verse,
Whose dulcet strain, with soothing pow'r,
Can calm the soul in sorrow's hour,
And scatter many a thornless flow'r:
The thoughts that breathe in each soft line,
Seem spirits from a purer shrine
Than earth can in her realms confine.
Yet mayst thou not, in mimic lay,
Such lofty arts of verse essay?
'Twere but a vain and weak display.
Be Freedom's bold, unfetter'd child,
And roam thy native forests wild,
Where, on thy birth, all nature smil'd;
Dwell on the mountain's sylvan crest,
Where fair Hygeia roams confest,
Bright Fancy's ever honor'd guest:
Mark the proud streams that onward sweep,
And to old Ocean's bosom leap--
Majestic offspring of the deep.
Their inspiration shall be thine,
And nature, from that mighty shrine,
Shall prompt thee with a voice divine!
When thy free spirit is reveal'd,
The spells within its depths conceal'd
Will soon a golden tribute yield.
In numbers free, by nature taught,
Breathe forth the wild poetic thought,
And let thy strains be Fancy fraught.
Enough! my child! a parent's voice
Would fain direct thy youthful choice
To themes, majestic and sublime,
The fruits of Freedom's favor'd clime.
Enough! For thee has nature thrown
O'er the wild stream a curb of stone,
Whose pendant arch in verdure dress'd,
Binds the tall mountain's cloven crest.[2]
For thee the volum'd waters sweep
Through riven mountains to the deep.[3]
For thee the mighty cataract pours
In thunder, through opposing shores;
And rushing with delirious leap,
Bursts the full fountains of the deep;
A billowy phlegethon--whose waves
Rend the strong walls of Ocean's caves.
C.
[Footnote 1: Mrs. Hemans.]
[Footnote 2: The Natural Bridge.]
[Footnote 3: Harper's Ferry.]
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
DEATH AMONG THE TREES.
Death walketh in the forest. The tall Pines
Do woo the lightning-flash,--and thro' their veins
The fire-cup darting, leaves their blacken'd trunks
A tablet, where Ambition's sons may read
Their destiny. The Oak that centuries spar'd,
Grows grey at last, and like some time-scath'd man
Stretching out palsied arms, doth feebly cope
With the destroyer, while its gnarled roots
Betray their trust. The towering Elm turns pale,
And faintly strews the sere and yellow leaf,
While from its dead arms falls the wedded vine.
The Sycamore uplifts a beacon-brow,
Denuded of its honors,--while the blast
That sways the wither'd Willow, rudely asks
For its lost grace, and for its tissued leaf
Of silvery hue.
I knew that blight might check
The sapling, ere kind nature's hand could weave
Its first spring-coronal, and that the worm
Coiling itself amid our garden-plants
Did make their unborn buds its sepulchre.
And well I knew, how wild and wrecking winds
May take the forest-monarchs by the crown,
And lay them with the lowliest vassal-herb;
And that the axe, with its sharp ministry,
Might in one hour, such revolution work,
That all earth's boasted power could never hope
To reinstate. And I had seen the flame
Go crackling up, amid yon verdant boughs,
And with a tyrant's insolence dissolve
Their interlacing,--and I felt that man
For sordid gain, would make the forest's pomp
Its heaven-rear'd arch, and living tracery
A funeral pyre. But yet I did not deem
That pale disease amid those shades would steal
As to a sickly maiden's cheek, and waste
The plenitude of those majestic ranks,
Which in their peerage and nobility,
Unrivall'd and unchronicled, had reign'd.
And then I said, if in this world of knells,
And open graves, there lingereth one, whose dream
Is of aught permanent below the skies,
Even let him come, and muse among the trees,
For they shall be his teachers,--they shall bow
To their meek lessons his forgetful ear,
And by the whispering of their faded leaves,
Soften to his sad heart, the thought of death.
L. H. S.
_Hartford, Con. Sept. 10, 1834_.
ORIGINAL LITERARY NOTICES.
AMIR KHAN, AND OTHER POEMS: the remains of Lucretia Maria Davidson, who
died at Plattsburg, N. Y. August 27, 1825, aged 16 years and 11 months.
With a Biographical Sketch, by Samuel F. B. Morse, A. M. _New York: G.
& C. & H. Carvill_--1829.