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Moving his spirit with a strange delight!
Love will I win from friendship-the old lure
Will I make new, and all the new secure;
And beauty never thence shall fade from sight!
Think not I mock thee-spells of higher power
Are gathered in the blue depths of this flower.
III.

Sweet Lady in the name of one no more,
Both of us loved and neither shall forget,
Make me thy brother, though our hearts before,
Perchance, have never in communion met;
Give me thy gentle memories, though there be,
Between our forms some thousand miles of sea,
Wild tract and wasted desert :-let me still,
Whate'er the joy that warms me, or the thrill,
That tortures, and from which I may not flee,
Hold ever a sweet place within thy breast!
La this my spirit shall be more than bless'd-
And in my prayers,—if, haply, prayer of mine
Be not a wrong unto a soul like thine,—

But such beguile me not! The trees are mine, These hoary headed masters;-and I glide, Humbled, beneath their unpresuming pride, And wist not much what blossoms bud or shine. I better love to see yon grandsire oak,

Old Druid, patriarch, lone among his race,With blessing, out-stretched arms, as giving

grace,

When solemn rites are said, or bread is broke : Decay is at his roots,-the storm has been Among his limbs, but the old top is green.

VII.

The pine with its green honors; cypress gray,
Bedded in waters; crimsoning with bloom,
The maple, that's irreverently gay,

Too soon, methinks, throws off his winter gloom;
The red bud, lavish in its every spray,

Glowing with promise of the exulting spring, And over all the laurel, like some king, Conscious of strength and stature, born for sway.

There shall be blessings from the skies for thee. I care not for their species-never look

IV.

They tell us-whom the Gods love, die in youth!
'Tis something to die innocent and pure;
But death without performance, is most sure,
Ambition's martyrdom-worst death, in truth,
To the aspiring temper, fix'd in thought,

Of high achievement! Happier far are they,
Who, as the Prophet of the Ancients taught,
Hail the bright finish of a perfect day!
With fullest consummation of each aim,
That wrought the hope of manhood—with the

crown,

Fix'd to their mighty brows, of amplest fame, Who smile at death's approaches and lie down, Calmly, as one beneath the shade tree yields, Satisfied of the morrow and green fields.

V.

Let us escape! This is our holiday

God's day, devote to rest; and, through the wood We'll wander, and, perchance, find heavenly food, So, profitless it shall not pass away. Tis life, but with sweet difference, methinks, Here, in the forest;-from the crowd set free, The spirit, like escaping song-bird drinks Fresh sense of music from its liberty. Thoughts crowd about us with the trees-the shade Holds teachers that await us: in our ear, Unwonted, but sweet voices do we hear, That with rare excellence of tongue persuade : They do not chide our idlesse,-were content, If all our wanderings were as innocent.

VI.

March is profuse in violets—at our feet
They cluster, not in pride but modesty ;
The damsel pauses as she passes by,
Plucks them with smiles, and calls them very sweet.

For class or order in pedantic book,-
Enough that I behold them-that they lead
To meek retreats of solitude and thought,
Declare me from the world's day-labors freed,
And bring me tidings books have never taught.

VIII.

Woods, waters, have a charm to soothe thine ear, When common sounds have vex'd it. When the

day

Grows sultry, and the crowd is in thy way, And working in thy soul much coil and care,Betake thee to the forests. In the shade

Of pines, and by the side of purling streams That prattle all their secrets in their dreams, Unconscious of a listener,-unafraid,Thy soul shall feel their freshening, and the truth Of nature then, reviving in thy heart, Shall bring thee the best feelings of thy youth, When in all natural joys, thy joy had part, Ere lucre and the narrowing toils of trade Had turn'd thee to the thing thou wast not made. IX.

The mighty and the massy of the wood

Compel my worship: satisfied I lie, With nought in sight but forest, earth and sky, And give sweet sustenance to precious mood!'Tis thus from visible but inanimate things,

We gather mortal reverence. They declare In silence, a persuasion I must share, Of hidden sources, far spiritual springs, Fountains of deep intelligence, and powers,

That man himself pursues not; and I grow From wonder into worship, as the show, Majestic, but unvoiced, through noteless hours, Imposes on my soul, with musings high, That, like Jacob's Ladder, lift me to the sky!

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There have been earnest fancies in my soul,
A wilder summons,-deeper cares than these,
That now possess my spirit and control,

Subduing me to forests and green trees;
Thoughts have assailed me in my solitude,
Of human struggle !-and within mine ear,
Still and anon as whispering voice I hear,
That mocks me with my feebleness of mood;
The puny
toil of song-the idle dance
Of metaphor, and shadows of romance!
Points to superior struggle-paints the cares
Of Empire, the great nation in the toils
Of impotence, that still in blindness dares,
And what it cannot elevate despoils.
[To be continued.]

POEMS:

BY PROFESSOR S. H. DICKSON, OF SOUTH CAROLINA. 1844.

We scarcely do right, we of the South, in passing heedlessly by the occasional performances of our amateur writers. Suppose there has been a sort of aristocratic indiference on their part, to the honors of authorship, which makes them rather anxious to avoid publicity or notoriety, when they put their thoughts in print? It is for us not to suffer them to escape so easily. We have too few authors among us-we take too little part in the great concerns of literature-not to make us solicitous of all who contribute, in however slight a degree, in furnishing our quota to the national stock of belleslettres. We must go out of the way, if needs be, to gather up the unconsidered trifles of our professional men-not forgetting how many of the favorite writers of England were of this class-men who turned aside, as if from graver labors, and loitered in the gardens of the muse.

Here now is a little volume, the author of which clearly comes under this classification. Professor Dickson, of the Medical College of South Carolina,

is too well known to the whole country to render it
necessary that we should say what are his claims
as a scientific man. He is also well known as a
polished and skilful reviewer and a graceful essayist.
There are few subjects of interest upon which his
mind cannot throw light and to which his taste
could not impart grace and beauty. As an orator, be
has honored some of the most venerable desks in
the Union. At home, he is deservedly recognized
as the urbane and accomplished gentleman. It is
not so well known, however, that he engages in
frequent and fortunate dalliance with the muses.
Our sister State of Carolina has produced several
poets, of whom, in Virginia, we know little or
nothing. Dickson is one of them. In Carolina,
one of his songs has acquired a peculiar popularity.
It has been adapted to music by a Southern com-
poser, and is murmured by rosy lips on happy eve-
nings. It is a Southern ditty, and we may claim the
application of some of its images.

SONG:-"I SIGH FOR THE LAND."
I.

I sigh for the land of the cypress and pine
Where the jessamine blooms and the gay woodbine;
Where the moss droops low from the green oak tree,-
Oh! that sunbright land is the land for me.

II.

The snowy flow'r of the orange there,
Sheds its sweet fragrance through the air;
And the Indian rose delights to twine
Its branches with the laughing vine.

III.

There the humming bird of rainbow plume,
Hangs over the scarlet creeper's bloom,
While midst the leaves his varying dyes
Sparkle like half-seen fairy eyes.

IV.

There the deer leaps light through the open glade,
Or hides him far in the forest shade,
When the woods resound in the dewy morn
With the clang of the merry hunter's horn.

V.

There the echoes ring through the live long day,
With the mock-bird's changeful roundelay,
And at night when the scene is calm and still,
With the moan of the plaintive whip-poor-will.

VI.

Oh! I sigh for the land of the cypress and pine,
Of the laurel, the rose and the gay woodbine;
Where the long grey moss decks the rugged oak tree;
That sunbright land is the land for me.

1830.

Here is something in a bolder and more enthu siastic spirit. The subject is one of a kind to demand a vigorous muse.

THE MOUNTAINS.
1.

The mountains! The mountains! Amidst them is my home;

To their pure and sparkling fountains impatiently I come;
Their bleak and towering summits invade the dark blue sky,
But o'er their rudest ridges my fancy loves to fly.

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Our author might have drawn a less gloomy moral from his inscription. If we pass with the hours, we are renewed with them. If we share the vicissitudes and suffer from the storms of time, are also sure of eternity. Our shipwreck secures us the haven, and if we use the passing

Brighter the silver moonbeams glance and fairer every star. we

V.

The mountains! the mountains! when clouds the day de-hour as we should, it is one which we should de

form.

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light, even at the hazard of mortal shipwreck, to attain. But we are subsiding into common place.

The tone of Professor Dickson's verse is uni

formly sad. His sentiments sometimes plaintive, sometimes mournful, is too frequently gloomy. We would not that this were so. Take the following cheerless, almost hopeless dirge for example.

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We do not know but that we have been overstepping the bounds of propriety in taking these liberties with this little volume, which is unpublished. and intended, by its amiable and accomplished author, only for his personal friends. But our apology must be found in the desire to extend this circle--and to treasure up in our pages, in successive issues, the amateur performances of the South. Our purpose is acquisition,—not criticism-from which, of course, an unpublished volume is always sacfed.

THE PRIZE TALE.

STEPHANO COLONNA, OR LOVE AND LORE.

A TALE OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.

CHAPTER V.

St. Mark's clock had chimed the midnight hour, and Stephano lay on a luxurious couch dreaming of love and Leonore, when a rude hand shook him from that pleasant slumber.

"You are summoned to the tribunal of the State," said a harsh voice.

He started up, and after a moment said, "It must be a mistake, my good friend, I am a stranger in Venice, and but this last evening arrived."

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Aye, are you not Stephano Colonna of Rome?" "I am."

"Then follow; for you I was sent," was the stern reply.

"But what is my offence?" "Your judges will tell you."

Stephano knew how vain the effect to elude the commands and officers of that fearful power which held Venice in chains, and he surrendered himself without farther questioning, whilst doubt and fear reigned in his mind. Without his door, he found twenty other officers in waiting. They immediately surrounded him, and silently and rapidly proceeded to the ducal palace. When they reached the foot of the "Giant stairs," the first officer only ascended with him, and through many a winding gallery, and lofty hall they entered that where the council of ten held their sittings. That room, the theatre of so many fearful scenes, was hung with black. With the same mournful hue the inquisitors, and the long table before them were clothed. Long waxen tapers burnt before them, casting but a dim light through the gloomy room. Behind them stretched the folds of a dark curtain. Every eye was bent on Stephano, as he fearlessly strode towards them and proudly said,

as to deprive her of sleep;-proofs of his guilt may be found on his person."

Stephano gazed around in mute astonishment, as Gian read these words :-he felt how cunning was the net in which his foes had enveloped him, but he also knew the injustice of the charges, and fiercely demanded.

"Who are mine accusers? Let them appear, and prove these charges."

Slowly the dark curtain behind the council was drawn back, and Azzo D'Este and Antonio, the fisherman, stepped forth.

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Let his person be searched," said the Prince. The command was obeyed, and soon the ruby amulet and cabalistic scroll lay on the table before the ten.

"Whence are these, Signor Colonna ?" said Gian.

"The amulet I purchased of the great Fabricio, and the scroll"

"Aye, what of it?"

"Was given me in the vision of a night, but what it contains I know not, as I was commanded to wait its interpretation; Count Gian himself wears an amulet!" said he, as he caught the glitter of a cross suspended to a chain, which had fallen from the Count's bosom, and was beaming against his dark robe,—“ Is my offence greater ?"

"The cross is a sacred emblem all may wear," said Gian with another scowl. “ No magician uses its sacred form."

"Nay, but priestcraft does, and doubtless his holiness, the Pope, has blessed that bauble❞—

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Beware, rash youth, how you speak lightly of the power of the church."

"Far be it from me, I mean but to show that I am not the only one who wears an amulet;-bet of bewitching the most beautiful Princess Leonore, I am innocent; lay not this to my charge."

"Three nights ago, I heard your converse with my child, the Princess Leonore, as ye sat in the balcony behind the eastern tower of my palace in Ferrara. I heard thee tell her of the delights of forbidden lore, and urge her flight with thee to

"I am here at your bidding, Signors, but why scenes, where undisturbed ye might together peryou have summoned me, am ignorant."

"The State has fitting cause, bold youth," said Count Gian, with a dark scowl. "First, you are accused of dealing with the forbidden arts of magic, a crime in itself punishable with death; next, with laying a spell of witchcraft on Leonore D' Este, Princess of Ferrara, depriving her of sleep: this was found to-night within the Lion's mouth.

"Know, Guardians of the State, that one Stephano Colonna, a Roman by birth, but now visiting your city, is in league with forbidden powers, and a week since was brought by one Antonio, a fisherman, from the accurst isle of Triptolemus, where he had passed the night; he is also charged with bewitching Leonore D'Este, of Ferrara, so

sue your unhallowed studies," were the stern wor's which now fell on Stephano's ear from the haughty Prince of Ferrara.

"You left Venice a week since for Ferrara," said Gian, "and the night before, you spent on the island of Triptolemus, whence this fisherman brought thee."

Antonio stood trembling and devoutly crossed himself at these words. Stephano answered not, and Gian said, "The charges are proved, and according to the laws of Venice, Stephano Colonna is judged”—

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Beware," interrupted he, "how you inflict death thus summarily on a Colonna. Ye know well the power of my name, and though by subtle

arts ye have found cause to accuse me, if I fall, lock followed, and the officer again stood before my death will not be unavenged." him to conduct him to the tribunal. Stephano Gian summoned the officer, and said, "Take sprang up with a feeling of thankfulness, for death Stephano to I Pozzi." Stephano was conducted was preferable to that living tomb. Again he stood down a dark and narrow stairway, through a long in the presence of his judges and calmly awaited gloomy gallery to the covered bridge, which leads his sentence-Gian said,

across the Rio Palazzo to the State Prison. Here

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Nay,

Stephano's cheek grew pale as he heard these words, and thought of Leonore and his home; but a smile curled his lip at the craftiness of the sentence. 'My youth, and services of my house! 'twas fear, ye dared not thus take the life of a Colonna," muttered he as he proudly left their presence and resought his lodgings. The morning hour found him far out at sea, in a vessel bound for Rome. On it he found Petro Trono, a young

"For the crimes of which you were accused and the officer unlocked a low door, and bade him enter. found guilty, you deserve death, but in consideraAll was darkness beyond, and Stephano found him tion of your youth, and the services of your illusself standing in water to the depth of two feet. The trious house, it is transmuted to banishment for door was locked behind him, the receding footsteps life. If after six days you are seen in any part of of the officer died away in the distance, and the Italy, your life will be the forfeit." cavalier was alone in a cell dark, damp and silent as the grave. A faint light now glimmered through a narrow window barred with iron, cut near the top of this gloomy abode, and Stephano, after some moments, distinguished a wooden platform raised three feet from the floor. On it was a rude straw bed. This was all the cell contained, and Stephano seated himself and pondered over his strange situation. Hour after hour wore on, and he heard but the gurgling sound of the waters of the canal as they poured through the iron gratings of these dungeons of horror, and the shriek of madness, or groan of despair from some fellow prisoner, immured around, "And what course will you take, Stephano ?" above, or below him. Anon, the light grew clearer "I know not," was his melancholy response. through his narrow window, and a far-off hum of "Heaven will guide me, oh! that I might once many voices and sounds betrayed that day had dawned. Presently, the jailer came, and putting again behold Leonore, but I dare not, Ferrara bedown some water, and miserable broth and bread, longs to Venice, and my greatest foe, the Prince, left him again to solitude. is there." Long before the slow-sailing caraval

Roman, and a friend. To him he told his mournful story, and charged him to seek the Princess and

tell her his fate.

Gradually the light grew dimmer, night's dark-reached Rome the time had expired, and Stephano ness and silence were again around him, as he still dared not land to bid his home farewell. sat on the wooden trestle in sorrow and gloom. The world was then ringing with the intended He had not tasted his wretched food, but huge expedition of the bold Genoese to discover a new water-rats and reptiles were busy over the feast. kingdom for the sovereigns of Arragon and CasDespair possessed his spirit and he laid down on tile. The enthusiastic spirit of Stephano hailed his pallet of straw with a brain burning with mad- with joy the news of his speedy sailing. Banished ness. At last sleep threw her magic spell over from his home, and her he loved, he determined to him and he dreamed of Leonore and far-off isles of seek a glorious name by attaching himself to this light and bliss. But dread his wakening! A cold expedition. At Rome he found a caraval bound substance touched his hand, and as he opened his for Flanders, and the captain promised to land him eyes a slimy snake crawled off and dropped into the at Palos. He embarked to join the bold adven"Farewell, Pietro," said he to his friend, water. A loathsome bloated toad clung to the damp turer. wall, and fixed on him its still and shining eye. He "remember to seek the Princess and tell her I go longed for the meanest of human kind, for the to seek a name with which Prince Azzo shall be music of the rudest speech; and now came the ter- proud to claim alliance; bid her be true, and we rible thought that he was immured for life! What had shall yet be happy." he to hope? He knew the ruthlessness of his judges; He reached Palos the evening before Columbus and was not an enemy of his house his accuser,besides sailed, and seeking that noble and benignant man, other foes unknown? What would the influence told him his mournful story, and asked permission of his family avail? He was shut up in a dungeon to accompany him. Columbus had been the vicand they in ignorance, and Leonore,-she might tim of disappointment for 18 years, during which now be given up to the Count, and in ignorance of time he had endeavored to interest various sovehis fate, and he raved in madness. Another day passed slowly away like its predecessor, his food had again been silently set down by the grim jailer. Night again and with it deeper despair, was around him. But in its darkest hour he heard footsteps approaching. The harsh grating of a key in the

reigns in his plans without success, and his heart used to suffering, could sympathize with the sorrows of the disconsolate youth. He gladly received him, for few were the hearts that willingly accompanied him in his bold enterprize-the scoff of all save a few kind hearts and wise heads.

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