1 i /7V t. .^4 '- 25 Hatteras, - - ". 27 The Sick Child, - 1 29 Taming the Wild Horse, 33 Night Watching, '''.\ - - - - *f*9 35 Silence, --..____ 41 The Shipwreck, 43 The Indian Village, - 49 Repinings, 53 The Inutile Pursuit, 54 Veneration, ? . - - 58 Washington, 59 First Day of Spring, -.-.._ 60 viii CONTENTS. ^, PAGE Song Bird and Flower, * ' -" l-"~ - - 75 Fall of the Leaf, 77 Love Imperial, " * V % " **aS ^ True Love, 82 The Slain Eagle, 83 Invocation, - Changes of Home, 90 Slumber, * -,* 92 The Eutaw Maid, - 93 The Tryst of Acayma, - - - - - - - 95 The Hunter of Calawassee, 99 To my Wife in Absence, - - "' *_ - - - - 109 To my Wife at Parting, - Ill Flight to Nature, 112 Evening by the Sea Shore, - - - - - % ;^^ - 114 Morning in the Forest, 117 The Shaded Water, ------- 123 The Approach of the Pestilence, 126 A Last Prayer, - - 128 Shadows, - 130 The Prayer of the Lyre, 134 The Deserted Home, - 140 The Humble Lot, - - 143 CONTENTS. ix PAGE April, fc . -"- *- *:.. - - - - ' '*- - 145 While the Silent Night goes by, 155 To a Winter Flower, - - - -^>' ; , . . ,jfe 156 The False and True, +.<> 158 Hymn at Evening, - -* * , * - - 159 Song in Spring, - - ** 4L * ^ - ' l61 To- , ^ V;| ,,# . * ;<- 162 A Lay in Winter, - - - ^ . ' . . . 163 A Winter Lay in Spring, 166 Shepherd's Hymn, t" ' . _ 168 Oh! Bid me Not, 169 Still on the Desert, *. : . ^ - - 169 Chuckwill's Widow, - - *- - . . . 170 Decaying Beauty, 171 'Tis a lowly Grave, - - * ."*." -'' - - - 172 Song in May, - - - " . ^ . . . . 173 The Story of God's Judgment, - * - -j> ... .. . . 175 The Forest Grave, - - ' . ,', v"** - -"**#.- - 188 Love in Idleness, 194 Albert and Rosalie, - 197 The Widow of the Chief, - ... '^ - 225 ADVERTISEMENT. WHILE these pages were going through the press, I received intelligence of the painful illness and death of a dearly beloved child. This event must plead with the reader for any inaccuracies in the volume. He must yield to the father, that indulgence, which cannot so well be demanded by the poet, SOUTHERN PASSAGES AND PICTURES. SOUTHERN PASSAGES AND PICTURES. THE BROOKLET. A LITTLE farther on, there is a brook Where the breeze lingers idly. The high trees Have roofed it with their crowding limbs and leaves, So that the sun drinks not from its sweet fount, And the shade cools it. You may hear it now, A low, faint beating, as, upon the leaves That lie beneath its rapids, it descends, In a fine showery rain, that keeps one tune, And 'tis a sweet one, still of constancy. Beside its banks, thro' the whole live long day, Ere yet I noted much the speed of time, And knew him but in songs and ballad-books, Nor cared to know him better, I have lain ; With thought unchid by harsher din than came From the quick thrush, that, gliding through the copse, Hurried above me ; or the timid fawn That came down to the brooklet's edge to drink, 1 2 SOUTHERN PASSAGES And sauntered through its shade, cropping the grass, Even where I lay, having a quiet mood, And not disturbing, while surveying mine. Thou smiTst and on thy lip a straying thought Says I have trifled calls my hours misspent, And looks a solemn warning ! A true thought, And so my errant mood were well rebuked ! Yet there was pleasant sadness that became Meetly the gentle heart and pliant sense, In that same idlesse gazing on that brook So pebbly and so clear, prattling away, Like a young child, all thoughtless, 'till it goes From shadow into sunlight, and is lost. AUTUMN TWILIGHT. THERE is a soft haze hanging on yon hill Tinged with a purple light. How beautiful, And yet how cold ! 'Tis the first robe put on By sad October. Well may he repine, His dowry is decay : decay though bright, And desolate, though bounteous. The sweet green. The summer flush of love, the golden bloom, That came with flow'rs in April all are gone. The green is pallid ; the warm, virgin flush, That was a maiden glory on the cheek AND PICTURES. And in the eye of summer, shrinks away, To gather on the hill-tops ; wooing in vain, The last embrace to sorrowful twilight given, By the down-vanishing sun : and the sweet airs Wail heavily through the branches, while the leaves, Saddest of mourners ! flung on summer's grave, Lament her in the silence of tine grief! Ah ! mock me not, that thus I mourn with them The sad heart's wisdom is to weep enough ! I hear your lesson, but of what avail 1 I may not heed it ! Never yet was grief A fit philosopher ; and all your rules Teach sorrow, when you teach her helplessness. What wisdom is 't to tell me that the year Must have its changes that all things that live Are things of change Death's sickle is put in To harvest forms that love, not less than forms That merely live ; and folly 'tis to mourn, That the immortal spirit should descend To not less sudden and sure apathy Than the poor flowers we tread on ! Happy he, Who thus may prose o'er nature, and the life So various, that she scatters on our path. For mine own part, an orphan child was I, That had no parents' tendance ! never mine A sister's lips have hallo w'd while they press'd ; No brother called me his; no natural ties SOUTHERN PASSAGES Embraced, and train'd, and nourished me, in youth: And thus, with strong affections, I have sought, Objects for worship in these solemn groves. They gave me what I sought and the pale flow'rs, And the green leaves, now yellow, at our feet, Were something more to me than leaves and flow'rs : They were my kindred ! Now, that they are gone, I weep them as a loss of family, And tread among them with a cautious foot, And sad, slow step, worn heart, and gloomy brow, As I were 'mongst the graves of brethren ! SUMMER NIGHT WIND. How soothingly, to close the sultry day, Comes the soft breeze from off the murmuring waves That break away in music and I feel - As a new spirit were within my veins, And a new life in nature. I awake From the deep weight of weariness that fell Heavily on my frame : a fresher life Groes keenly through each limb and artery, And a new nerve, a livelier sense and strength, Kindles my languid spirit into play. Oh, generous nature ! This is then thy boon : These airs that come with evening-^ these sweet spells AND PICTURES. That steal into the bosom, not to sting, And speak, not idly, of their affluence. Let me look forth and win them let me know Their soothing ministry. They come I feel The odorous breath of evening, like a wing, Lifting the hair upon my moistened brows, As if a spirit fanned me. Slowly, at fits, The wind ascends my lattice, and creeps in, And swells the shrinking drapery of my couch, Then melts away around me. Now it comes Again, and with a perfume on its breath, Drank up from spicy gardens. The fair maid, Whose roses thus yield tribute to the march Of that wild rover, guesses not the thief, Whose fierce embrace, at midnight, robs them thus, Leaving them drooping, when she comes at morn, From their nocturnal amours. Is it not A gentle providence that thus provides With odor such as this, the unfavored one, Who else had never known it ? Pleasant breeze, Misfortune well may love thee ! Thou hast fled The gayer regions. The high palaces, Fair groves and gardens of nice excellence, The pride of power, the pomp of pageantry, That gild ambition and conceal its cares, Could not detain thee. Thou hast fled them all, And like some spirit of benignant make, Hast come to cheer the lonely. It is meet Thy welcome should be lavish like thyself. Thou art no flatterer, and thou shouldst not creep 1* 6 SOUTHERN PASSAGES Through a close lattice with but half thy train, "When he would gather all of thee, and feel Thy energies around him. Sweet, most sweet Plaintive and sweet thy leafy whispering Sends a glad music to the o'erladen heart, Jarr'd by long restlessness, and out of tone, From the oppressive and distempered heat Of the long day in summer. Sweet the sleep Thy presence brings me. The o'er troublous thought, That, like a factious discontent, wrought strife, And a most wild commotion in the brain, Is soothed to silence, and forgets its coils ; And the coy slumbers wooed so long in vain, Are wrapping me at last. I will lie down Beneath my window : . Thou, meanwhile, wilt come And wave thy wings above my throbbing brows, And put aside the tangles .of my hair "With a mysterious kindness. Then, at morn, Still watchful of thy charge, thy livelier breath Will chide my slumbers off, and rouse me up To life's renewal the cold carking cares That gather with its duties and its joys. Yet, even as now, thy wing will corne again, Laden at night with fairy comforters, From groves that fling out their unheeded gifts, That they may woo thee to the same embrace Thou dost bestow upon me while I sleep. AND PICTURES. THE YOUNG MOTHER. THE wind blew wide the casement, and within It was the loveliest picture ! a fair child Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life From a half-hid and delicate white round, That seem'd an orb of bliss, and was an orb Of purity. Its little parted lips, And rounded cheek, that lay upon the breast, Even as a young leaf of the parent flow'r, W^ere of one color rich, and warm, and fresh, And such alone are beautiful. Its eye, A full, blue gem, most exquisitely set, Looked archly on its world the little imp, As if it knew, even then, that such a wealth Were not for all ; and with its playful hands- It drew aside the robe that hid its realm, And peeped, and laugh'd aloud, and so, it laid Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys, And laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek Tears, such as fall from April skies, and bring The sunlight after. They were tears of joy ; And the true heart of that young mother then Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously, The silliest ballad-song that ever yet Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought sleep To fold her sabbath wings above its couch. SOUTHERN PASSAGES MORAL CHANGE. DARKNESS is gathering round me, but the stars, Silent and unobtrusive, stealing out, Lend beauty to the night. The air comes cool, Up, from the fountain ; and the murmuring breeze, Gushing through yonder valley, has a song Spelling the silence to such mystery As mingles with our dreams. It is the hour, When sad, sweet thoughts have sway; when memory Triumphant o'er the past, waves her green wand, And bids the clouds roll back, and lifts the veil That had been closed behind us as a wall, And the eye sees, and the heart feels and lives Once more, in its old feelings. I retread The groves of past affections, and dear hopes, And dreams that looked like hopes, and fled as well. This is the spot I know it as of old By various tokens, but 'tis sadly changed. Men look not as they did ; and flowers that grew, Nursed by some twin affections, grow alone, Pining for old attendance. Thus, our change, Brings a worse change on nature. She will bloom, To bless a kindred spirit ; but she flies The home that yields no worship. She is seen Through the sweet medium of our sympathies, And has no life beside. 'Tis in our eye Alone, that she is lovely 'tis our thought That makes her dear, as only in our ears AND PICTURES. Lies the young minstrel's music, which were harsh, Did not our mood yield up fit instrument For his congenial fingers. It is thus, The beautiful evening, the secluded vale, The murmuring breeze, the gushing fountain, all, So exquisite in nature to the sense, So cheering to the spirit bring me nought But shadows of a gloomy thought that rise With the dusk memory with repeated tales, Censuring the erring heart-hope with its loss : Loss upon loss the dark defeat of all The pleasant plans of boyhood promises That might have grown in fairy land to flowers, And were but weeds in this. They did but wound, Or cheat and vanish with deluding glare : Having the aspect of some heavenly joy, They also had its wings, and tired of earth, Replumed them back for the more natural clime, And so were lost to ours. Hopes still wrong And torture, when they grow extravagant Youth is their victim ever, for they grow, With the advancing season, into foes That wolve upon him. 'Tis a grief to me, Though a strange pleasure still, thus to look forth, Watching, through lengthening hours, so sweet a scene, And winning back old feelings as I gaze. Boyhood had drawn a picture fair like this On fancy's vision. Ancient oaks were there* Giving the landscape due solemnity < 10 SOUTHERN PASSAGES A quiet streamlet trickled through a grove, And the birds sang most sweetly in the trees But then, the picture was not incomplete, Nor I, alone, as now. MENTAL SOLITUDE. THE bells are gayly pealing, and the crowd, The thoughtless and the happy, with light hearts, Are moving by my casement : I can hear The rude din of their voices, and the tramp Of hurrying footsteps o'er the pavement nigh, And my soul sickens in its solitude. Each hath his own companion, and can bend, As to a centre of enlivening warmth, To some abode of happiness and mirth ; Greeted by pleasant voices, words of cheer, And hospitality, whose outstretched hand Draws in the smiling stranger at the door. They go not singly by, as I should go, But hanging on fond arms. They muse not thoughts Of strange and timid sadness, such as mine ; But dreams of promised joys are in their souls, And, in their ears, the music of kind words That make them happy. AND PICTURES. 11 I, alas ! alone, Of all this populous city, must remain, Shut up in my dim chamber, or, perchance, If I dare venture out among the crowd, Will be among, not of, them ; and, appear, For that I have not walked with them before, Nor been a sharer in their festivals, As some strange monster brought" from foreign climes But to be baited with the thoughtless gaze, The rude remark, cold eye, and sneering lip, 'Till I grow savage, and become, at last, The rugged brute they do behold in me. Talk not to me of solitude ! Thou hast But little of its meaning in thy thought, And less in thy observance. It is not To go abroad into the wilderness, Or dart upon the ocean ; to behold The broad expanse of prairie or of wood, And deem, for that the human form is not A dweller on its bosom, (with its shrill And senseless clamor oft, breaking away The melancholy of its sweet serene, That, like a mantle, lifted by the breath Of some presiding deity, o'erwraps, Making all mystery and gentleness,) That solitude is thine. Thy thought is vain ! That is no desert, where the heart is free To its own spirit-worship ; where the soul, Untainted by the breath of busy life, 12 SOUTHERN PASSAGES Converses with the elements, and grows To a familiar notion of the skies, Which are its portion. That is liberty ! And the sweet quiet of the waving woods, The solemn song of ocean the blue skies, That hang like canopies above the plain. And lend their richest hues to the fresh flow'rs That carpet its broad bosom, are most full Of solace and the sweetest company ! I love these teeming worlds, their voiceless words, So full of truest teaching. God is there, Walking beside me, as, in elder times, He walked beside the shepherds, and gave ear To the first whispered doubts of early thought, And prompted it aright. Such wilds to me Seem full of friends and teachers. In the trees, The never-ceasing billows, winds and leaves, Feathered and finny tribes, all that I see, All that I hear and fancy, I have friends, That soothe my heart to meekness, lift my soul To loftiest hope, and, to my toiling mind, Impart just thoughts and safest principles. They have a language I can understand, Wlien man is voiceless, or with vexing words Offends my judgment. They have melodies That soothe my heart to peace, even as the dame Soothes her young infant with a song of sounds That have no meaning for the older ear, And mock the seeming wise. Even wint'ry clouds Have charms for me amid their cheerlessness, AND PICTURES!. 13 And hang out images of love and light, At evening, 'mong the stars, or, ere the dark That specks so stilly the gray twilight's wing, With many colors sweetly intermixt : And when the breezes gather with the night, And shake the roof-tree under which I sleep, 'Till the dried leaves enshroud me, then I hear Voices of love and friendship in mine ear, That speak to me in soothing, idle sounds, And flatter me, I am not all alone. Darting o'er ocean's blue domain, or far In the deep woods, where the gaunt Choctaw yet Lingers to perish; galloping o'er the bald Yet beautiful plain of prairie, I become Part of the world around me, and my heart Forgets its singleness and solitude. But, in the city's crowd, where I am one 'Mongst many, many who delight to throw The altar I have worshipped in the clust, And trample my best offerings, and revile My prayers, and scorn the tribute, which I still Devoted with full heart and purest mind To the all -wooing and all- visible God, In nature ever present - having no mood With mine, nor any sympathy with aught That I have loved ; 'tis there that I am taught The essence and the form of solitude 'Tis there that I am lonely ! 'mid a world, To feel I have no business in that world ; And when I hear men laughing, not to join, 2 14 SOUTHERN PASSAGES Because their cause of mirth is hid from me : To feel the lights of the assembly glare And fever all my senses, till I grow Stupid, or sad, and boorish; then return, Sick of false joys and misnamed festivals, To my own gloomy chambers, and old books That counsel me no more, and cease to cheer, And, like an aged dotard, with dull truths, Significant of nothings, often told, And told to be denied, that wear me out, In patience, as in peace ; and then to lie, And watch the lazy-footed night away, With fretful nerve, that sorrows when it flies! To feel the day advancing which must bring The weary night once more, that I had prayed Forever gone ! To hear the laboring wind, Depart, in melting murmurs, with the tide, And, ere the morn, to catch his sullen roar, Mocking the ear, with watching overdone, Returning from his rough lair on the seas ! If life be now denied me ; if I sit Within my chamber when all other men Are revelling ; if I must be alone, Musing on idle minstrelsy and lore Weaving sad fancies with the fleeting hours, And making fetters of the folding thoughts, That crush into my heart, and canker there ; If nature calls me to her company, Takes up my time, teaches me legends strange, Prattles of wild conceits that have no form, AND PICTURES. 15 Save in extravagant fancy of old years, When spirits were abroad ; -if still she leads My steps away from the established walks, And, with seducing strains of syren song, Beguiles my spirit far among the groves Of fairy-trodden forests, that I may Wrestle with dreams that wear away my days, And make my nights a peopled realm which steals Sleep from my eyes, and peace; if she ordains That I shall win no human blandishment, Nor, in the present hour, as other men, Find meet advantage : she will sure provide, Just recompense a better sphere and life, Atoning for the past, and full of hope In a long future, or she treats me now, Unkindly, and I may not help complaint. THE WESTERN EMIGRANTS. AN aged man, whose head some seventy years Had snow'd on freely, led the caravan ; His sons and sons' sons, and their families, Tall youths and sunny maidens a glad group, That glowed in generous blood, and had no care, And little thought of the future followed him ; Some perch'd on gallant steeds, others, more slow, 16 SOUTHERN PASSAGES The infants and the matrons of the floek, In coach and jersey, but all moving on To the new land of promise, full of dreams Of western riches, Mississippi-mad ! Then came the katids, some forty-five or more, Their moderate wealth united some in carts Laden with mattresses ; on ponies some ; Others, more sturdy, following close a-foot, Chattering like jays, and keeping, as they went, Good time to Juba's creaking violin. I met and spoke them. The old patriarch, The grandsire of that goodly family, Told me his story, and a few brief words. Unfolded that of thousands. Discontent, With a vague yearning for a better clime, And richer fields than thine, old Carolina,, Led him to roam. Yet did he not complain Of thee, dear mother mother still to me, Though now, like him, a wanderer from thy homes. Thou had'st not chided him, nor trampled down His pride nor his ambition. He knew thee not, As I, by graves and sorrows. Thy bright sun Had always yielded flowers and fruits to him, And thy indulgence and continued smiles Had made his pittance, plenty. Yet he flies To a wild region, where the unploughed fields Are stagnant with their waste fertility, And long for labor. His were sparkling dreams, As fond as those of boyhood. Golden stores AND PICTURES. 17 They promised him in Mississippian vales, Outshining all the past, atoning well So thought he idly for the home he leaves, The grave he should have chosen, and the walks, And well known fitness of his ancient woods. Self-exiled, in his age he hath gone forth To the abodes of strangers, seeking wealth Not wealth but money ! Heavens 1 what wealth we give, Daily, for money ! What affections sweet What dear abodes what blessing, happy joys What hopes, what hearts, what affluence, what ties, In a mad barter where we lose our all, For that which an old trunk, a few feet square, May compass like our coffin ! That old man Can take no root again ! He has snapped off The ancient tendrils, and in foreign clay His branches will all wither. Yet he goes, Falsely persuaded that a bloated purse Is an affection is a life a lease, Renewing life, with all its thousand ties, Of exquisite endearment flowery twines, That, like the purple parasites of March, Shall wrap his aged trunk, and beautify, Even while they shelter. I could weep for him, Thus banished by that madness of the heart, But that mine own fate, not like his, self-chosen, Is not less desolate, and to me more dread. There is an exile. 'Tis not when one goes To dwell in other regions from his home 2* 18 SOUTHERN PASSAGES Removed by the deep waters. Change of place Is seldom exile. Thus it has been called, But vainly. There 's another banishment, To which such fate were gentle. 'Tis to be An exile on the spot where you were born ; A stranger on the hearth which saw your youth, Banish'd from hearts to which your heart is turn'd; Unbless'd by those, from whose o'er- watchful love, Your heart would drink all blessings : 'Tis to be, In your own land the native land whose soil First gave you birth ; whose air still nourishes, If that may nourish which denies all care And ev'ry sympathy ; and whose breast sustains, A stranger hopeless of the faded hours, And reckless of the future-; a lone tree To which no tendril clings whose desolate boughs Are scathed by angry winters, and bereft Of the green leaves that cherish and adorn. THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP. 'Tis a wild spot and hath a gloomy look ; The bird sings never merrily in the trees, And the young leaves seem blighted. A rank growth Spreads poisonously round, with pow'r to taint, With blistering dews, the thoughtless hand that dares AND PICTURES. To penetrate the covert. Cypresses Crowd on the dank, wet earth; and, stretched at length, The cayman a fit dweller in such home Slumbers, half-buried in the sedgy grass, Beside the green ooze where he shelters him. A whooping crane erects his skeleton form, And shrieks in flight. Two summer ducks aroused To apprehension, as they hear his cry, Dash up from the lagoon, with marvellous haste, Following his guidance. Meetly taught by these, And startled at our rapid, near approach, The steel -jawed monster, from his grassy bed, Crawls slowly to his slimy, green abode, Which straight receives him. You behold him now, His ridgy back uprising as he speeds-, In silence, to the centre of the stream, Whence his head peers alone. A butterfly, That, travelling all the day, has counted climes Only by flowers, to rest himself awhile, Lights on the monster's brow. The surly mute Straightway goes down, so suddenly, that he, The dandy of the summer flow'rs and woods, Dips his light wings, and spoils his golden coat, With the rank water of that turbid pond. Wondering and vex'd, the plumed citizen Flies, with an hurried effort, to the shore, 1 Seeking his kindred flow'rs : but seeks in vain Nothing of genial growth may there be seen, Nothing of beautiful! Wild, ragged trees, That look like felon spectres fetid shrubs, 20 SOUTHERN PASSAGES That taint the gloomy atmosphere dusk shades, That gather, half a cloud, and half a fiend In aspect, lurking on the swamp's wild edge, Gloom with their sternness and forbidding frowns The general prospect. The sad butterfly, Waving his lacker'd wings, darts quickly on, And, by his free flight, counsels us to speed, For better lodgings, and a scene more sweet, Than these drear borders offer us to-night. COTTAGE LIFE. IT is a quiet picture of delight, This humble cottage, hiding from the sun, In the thick woods. We see it not 'till now, When at its porch. Rudely, but neatly wrought, Four columns make its entrance slender shafts The rough bark yet upon them, as they came From the old forest and dame Nature's hand, Who did not grudge her gift. Prolific vines Have wreathed them well, and half obscured the rind, Unpromising, that wraps them. Crowding leaves Of glistening green, and clustering bright flowers, Of purple, in whose cups throughout the day The humming bird wantons boldly, wave around, And woo the gentle eye and delicate touch. AND PICTURES. 21 This is the dwelling, and it is to me Quiet's especial temple. No rude sound Breaks in upon time's ancient ordering, Save the occasional mill clack, and the hum From yonder bee tree the still busy tribe, Lightening their labors with a song of thrift, Harmonious with the good wife's spinning wheel. I know not what may move me to the thought,. But I do think, that life might glide away, Nor feel itself at parting cloistered here In calm seclusion from the bustling world Untroubled by the doubt and the despair, The intrusion, and the coil of crowded life ; Soothed, when the erring pulses do beat high, With the sweet catches of the vagrant birds, That, perching on your eaves, win you away Into the stillness of more gentle thoughts. The woods at morn have life the winds at eve, Play, whispering at the shutter stealing in, To counsel slumber waving o'er your couch Their leafy winglets, strewing the blossoming airs "Won from the forests they have all day swept ! The skies I know not why, but, in the vale, Secluded thus, and o'er our cottage roof--- Wear a perpetual face of gentleness, Smiling in sunshine and when clouds are there, They come as seasonable friends to bring The unobserved showers, that freshen all, 22 SOUTHERN PASSAGES Yield life and verdure to the drooping plants, And bid the young and shrinking flowers rejoice. The hills are natural tombs, and we shall sink Quietly, in their bosoms, at the last, Nor leave our homes less peaceful. The soft hands Of the twin-sister seasons, shall unite To bend the green shrubs o'er our graves in turn And then we know that spring will bring her flowers, And, like a maiden who thus mourns her love, Plant them above our silent resting place. THE UNdUIET SPIRIT. MIDNIGHT! and I am watching with the stars Can ye not let me slumber for awhile, Ye roving thoughts and thou, unquiet mood, Still active, wandering through infinity, All times and nations, changes, destinies, With sleepless soul, and discontented gaze, Finding no place of rest ? Can ye not spare, To the o'er-wearied votary, one pause From the sad spirit's vigil ] Must he still, Climb the precipitous height, and with no guide Save the fond watchers, twinkling in the heavens, And the stern instinct, into which resolved, AND PICTURES. 23 Ye do compel the labor, hurry him on, Weary, and with no recompense, to gain The solitary chaplet of sad flow'rs, But little valued, which a stranger hand, When I am dead, and those who knew me once Miss me no longer from the crowded way, Will place, perchance, upon my humble grave ? This is the trophy, and for this I toil ! Yet am I proud among my fellow men, And strive with him whose aim is greatly bent For the sole column ; and with marvellous dread Shrink from each middle perch of eminence. And, in my chamber, when the world is still, And those who were most ready in the strife, Have sunk to sweet repose, wakeful, I ask, Does my ambition, then, but strive for this Poor honor, which no present hand bestows, And the far future, like some tardy steed, Brings, when too late, and only brings in vain ? And is it such poor victory, which now Keeps me from slumber makes the violent pulse, And the full veins upon my forehead, swell With aimless tumult, while the unsettled heart, Now bounding with keen hope, desponding now, Yearns for some other state, some wider range For action, and some truer sympathy 1 Is it for this, I ask, ye gentler sprights Which tend upon the discontented soul, That the still night, with its sad, twiring stars, 4 SOUTHERN PASSAGES Still rises on my gaze, while all beside Are, in the dwellings of sweet dreams, at rest ; And even the bird that, pendant from my roof, Murmur'd, erewhile, at intervals, his song In wand'ring catches, wild, and more than sweet, Has sought his cover in the mazy wood. My spirit and my reason are not one, They do rebuke each other. With the one The world is full of glowing images, And life abounds in honors, and strong hearts Bend to the lofty sway, and gentle eyes Look forth a pure encouragement, more dear, And it may be, though not so thought by men, More full of worth and value than the rest. 'Tis thus that fancy, ever won with dreams, Portrays its triumphs until reason comes, And with stern accents and unbending brow, Experience at her side, proclaims them all Shallow and profitless things far beneath The sober and strong estimate of sense. I fear me she is true. I have not lived, Untaught by my own being, and the toil, The battle for existence. Yet, I feel There is a triumph beyond reason's scope, And out of her domain. The spirit feels Its urgent nature, which, though dash'd with care, Is still a medicine that " physics pain" A golden draught, more potent than of old AND PICTURES. 25 The alchemists, through years of toil pursued, Wearing out life, in idle search of that Which should preserve it. If I must look forth, Watching yon sad but lustrous galaxy, Counting their many and divided lights, Despatching thought on missions unto them, And lingering for response, I shall not fear, Thus, in the eye of heaven, to urge my claim, To those same thick sown fields of glorious life, My heritage on which my spirit turns, With a most natural instinct, which approves Its right, and justifies its high demand Our future dwelling place, to which, my soul, Like one unjustly disinherited, Still looks, though vain, and cannot cease to look. -:! J*k/: .?