som.

than love!

66

Her mother did not see me-but she missions, which often take him a distance -in vain she affected to be looking at some- from Madrid. It would be a great annoything else she saw it; and I remarked nei-ance to him if you were to be at his house duther anger nor indignation in her counte- ring his absence." Oh when will he come! nance. I even believe-yes, I am sure of When will he call his wife-she who has it--when she spoke to me her voice was waited for him so long-so wearily-so pasofter than usual. Does she dare to love tiently"-said Clara, her eyes filling with me the perfidious wretch? If I thought tears-and her hands falling by her side, in SO Well what, madman, what would you an attitude of hopeless dejection-" ny do? Against whom would you turn a hus- hopes are wasted in expectation! I have band's fury? Your rival? You cannot reach | been confiding every morn I awakened him but through yourself. Against your with a feeling of renewed hope and joywife?-but the lover will bring her to the now I have lost that bright anticipation arms of her husband. No, no, Honor-the which filled my future life with its sweetest honor of a Spanish nobleman speaks louder dreams! What have I done to be condemned to such suffering! Sometimes I long to die. My soul is pure-I should then -Since I have loved her so passionately, be happy and Salvator free." These tender my fears and desires fill my mind with inex- complaints entered into the depths of my tricable confusion. Her coldness drives me soul. Pity and remorse seized me for the to despair, and the least mark of affection part I was acting, and who knows how far reddens my brow with blushes. To repulse my ardent desire to console her, would me breaks my heart. To welcome me with have led me-if her mother had not entered. a smile maddens me. When she looks upon Exasperated by Clara's tears, Madame d' me with her tender eyes, in which I think I Aubigneux, heaped the bitterest reproaches can read all I feel, a transport of joy seizes upon Salvator-he was a barbarian-a tyBut honor steps in like a thief to rob rant-unworthy of a wife's tenderness-she me of my joys, and make them the instru- groaned-she wept over her daughter's youth ments of my torture. Sometimes I wish-buried in a living tomb. Clara feeling all yes, I long to enter that heart without the the indelicacy of this scene, endeavored, husband's knowledge. But he is here. That in vain to interrupt her, the stream of her severe judge is always here. When she wrath had burst out and nothing could stop speaks to me in a tender, caressing tone, Iit. Far from fearing any indiscretion on my am on the brink of saying to her-" Hush! part she took me aside, and traducing me Clara, hush! Salvator sees you-hears you. before myself, she asked me if her daughBut alas! the charm, or the agony of the ter merited such contempt. But little dissuspicion of her love, soon vanishes. Clara's posed, to maintain a long discussion upon goodness, not her heart, is interested in me: this head I contented myself with replyingshe sees that I am sad, and wishes to console that Salvator, would doubtless, soon come If her mother calls, she leaves me and justify his course-adding, that justice without a moment's hesitation, without a sin-never condemns a criminal before he is gle regret. No-she loves me not; for she heard.

me.

me.

fears not to speak of her husband to me.

Clara is sad and suffering-her pallid "Do you think?" she asked me that features and dejected looks add new charms -Salvator would be angry-and chide a disobe- to her person-never have I seen her so dience, which would prove-my desire to go beautiful! How I longed to take her in my to him and seek his protection ?" "Madame" arms and kiss away those reproachful tears. I replied. "It is not without good reasons- But my honor-my honor-must be satisfied. that Salvator deprives himself of the hap- Plunged into a kind of ecstacy I looked piness of having you near him. Honored upon her with all the burning ardor of my by his sovereign's confidence, for more than soul beaming from my eyes. She met it a year he has been charged with important look of gentle dignity. To withdraw from

Nor hath a tireless Faith essayed in vain
To win from sorrow that divinest rest,
Which, like a sunset purpling through the rain
Of dying storms, maketh the darkness blest;
Grief is transfigured, and dethroned fears
Pale in the glory beckoning from the West.

V.

To meet the thus! oh! never-nevermore,
I pray thee God, let me behold that face,
Whose memory haunting universal space,
Made mournful all the desolate years of yore;
But now, the brooding shadow of this wo,
A wo words may not picture, from my brain
And saddened soul was lifted, and the flow
Of life's freed river coursed in light again;
Then in a moment, like a flash from heaven,
When the mute air is stormless, thy dark eyes

of all true poetry; and that there is a strength among us, reserved though it now be, that will at some future day, if encouraged and sustained by proper appreciation, place southern and northern poetry on the same platform of equality.

In the first poem, and the longest, styled "The Temptation of Venus," the author has endeavored to show "that in the maelstrom of the passions, virtue and happiness are sure to go down together." Would that all poetry, speaking in its own seductive language, taught this divine moral; then indeed, would poetry, winged by celestial

Smote my stilled conscience, and the peace is riven, truth, purify and exalt the heart it sought

Born of so many penitential sighs,

And tears through whose renewed gushing, gleams
A wan face touched by melancholy dreams.

HAYNE'S POEMS."

The star of literature, ascending slowly but brightly in our southern hemisphere, gives inspiring token of better days to come. Hitherto, southern literature has lain shrouded, as it were, under a pall of almost impenetrable darkness. The southern poet, filled with the fire of his native land, yet held a silent harp, or struck its chords so irresolutely, so self-depreciatingly, that their strains. were scarcely wafted beyond his own sunny shores. But a new aurora has dawned upon us; and we hail each rosy beam with a pæan of thankfulness.

This little volume, whose merits we are about considering, comes to us bearing the unmistakable seal of a true poet; one, who feeling the divine commission of Poesy, has delivered her message truthfully, manfully, and earnestly.

to teach. This poem is replete with true gems, shining with a natural light, and not for the poor sake of effect, forced and radiating with false and tinsel glare. Take, for instance, a few of these selected at random. -"the lurid sunset's gorgeous gate,"

-"the sapped soul was dead,
Through whose dried branches to Decay resigned,
Remorse rushed howling like a hollow wind,"
And how the very essence of poetry per-
vades these lines.

"So, on the dewy atmosphere, outgushed
A world of sighs, whose amorous plenitude
Stole to the Nightingale's green home, where hushed,
And dreaming, drooped the minstrel of the wood,
And set the music sleep had frozen free,

In tropic tides of tender harmony."
"Tropic tides of tender harmony," is
music that will flow melodiously into the
most fastidious ear.

The closing verses of this poem are in an earnest and lofty strain. The enchantment of sin being over, and the "Palace crumbled into dust;" "Horror and Demoniac Fear," lay their mighty hands on the guilty victim. He seeks his guide

-" to ask

To review this book properly-to exhibit the under current of beauty and deepened thought that flows, like some quiet, but potent Fit consolation in this dread extreme;" stream, through it, would require more ability than we are conscious of possessing. We therefore, simply content ourselves with selecting such gems as sparkle on the surface; and by so doing, hope to convince the scepti cal, that the South can produce poets, who, in a large degree, possess the very essence POEMS: by Paul H. Hayne. Boston: Ticknor, Reed and Fields.

but her angel form has ascended into the glorious heavens.

"A solemn voice stole on him from afar,
Like music melting from some mournful star.”

Go forth to find thy crimes just recompense,
Go forth to meet the sorrow and the shame,
Which to the souls who canonize the sense,
Cling ever, like fierce serpents born of flame,
Draw in earth's lowest air thy laboring breath,
And learn the full significance of death."

"Yet from the ruin of thy low estate,
A penitential patience hath sufficed
To plume the heart for the Empyreal gate,
And the serene benignity of Christ;

In humbleness and prayer work out thy doom,
'Till Glory trembles from the depths of Gloom."

who seeking to win for themselves some faint tone of the "Eternal Melodies," consecrate all the energy of an earnest nation to the work, and "fixing their eyes on a starry height," cannot descend to any earthly altitude. Yet the poet tells us, even these feeble winged ones, catch a glimpse of rich

In quoting from this poem, we are aware that we have only given faint glimpses of its varied beauties-snatches of its melody-poetic glory that has its reward.

half uttered notes of its rich, deep harmonies. To appreciate it fully, the entire poem must be read; we have merely opened "the golden gate of song," but beyond, there is a rich parterre that will amply repay the lovers of the beautiful.

"Life and Death," which when it first appeared in the pages of this magazine, attracted much attention by its solemn imagery

"Yet I would rather in the outward state
Of Song's immortal Palace lay me down,
A beggar basking by that golden gate,
Than bend beneath the haughtiest Empire's crown.

For sometimes, through the bards, my tranced eyes
Have taught the vision of a life divine,

And seen a far, mysterious rapture rise
Beyond the veil that guards the inmost shine."

Perhaps the most beautiful poem in the

and lofty tone, is a sonnet reminding us of book-certainly the most pathetic, is that

the grand old Milton, hymning sublimely.

The sonnet commencing,

"Ye cannot add by any pile ye raise,

One jot or tittle to the Statesman's fame."

is the noble outburst of an indignant heart, conveying a deal of scorn that finds a deep a mighty echo, in every loyal heart that beats

within the borders of that

-"recreant State

Whose condemnation comes from her own lips,"
"October" is a beautiful sonnet, bringing
before us a charming picture of glorious au-
tumnal woods.

"And deep-toned majesty of golden floods,
That raise their solemn dirges to the sky,
To swell the purple pomp that floateth by."

which commences

"This is the place-I pray thee, friend,
Leave me alone with that dread Grief,
Whose raven wings o'erarch the grave,
Closed on a life how sad and brief."

Who, of any poetic sensibility, will not be touched by the deep pathos that seems to sob through this little poem, the hopelessness of grief-the utter abandonment of sorrow that stands steeped to the very lips in woe, desolate and heart-shattered, by the grave of the beloved dead? Youth! Love! these are beautiful twin words, what impassioned thoughts -what golden visions of delightful bliss do they marshal into view. But when that Youth is severed from Love by a fate as cruel, as inexorable, as unconquerable as the grave itself, what wild waves of sorrow surge against

For manly tenderness, and delicate fancy, the soul, what an endless grief goes wailing the sonnet commencing,

"Beloved in this holy hush of night,

I know that thou art looking to the South"

through a life time. Quieted a moment, sobbing itself into a troubled sleep, only to wake again with a fresh burst of agonized regret; is preeminently lovely. "The Eve of the aroused by memories, strong and deep. This Bridal," is rich in delicate, true, and glow- poem may be, perhaps is, altogether ideal, ing tints, to quote from it, would mar its but if ideal, it is so like truth, that we take beauty. "Aspirations" is the fervent utter- it to our hearts, and enshrine it there as a ance-the deep feeling, of a true poet's beautiful picture of truthful nature. Many heart. "The will to soar but not the wings;" there are whose dim light of experience is this it is that makes the unconquerable un- fortunately too faint to enable them to read quiet-the restless craving of all intellectual sympathizingly this poem; but there are aspirations. Not of those who aim low, and others, who by the blazing glare of their own with meagre achievement, are satisfied; rest- deep misery, will read and understand, how ing content with the world's poor praise, and "awful" the "summer's sunshine" can their own easily gained applause; but they, "strike"

"Incongruous on the spirit's storm," when standing desolate by the tomb, where love, youth and hope lie buried together.

And with these observations we close our imperfect remarks upon this book of Southern poetry. We have spoken admiringly, for we have spoken conscientiously; believing that all who are capable of distinguishing the divine light of poetry from the mere ignis fatuus that sometimes passes for the true blaze, will agree in our estimate of these poems.

The young author is possessed of a glowing but chastened imagination; deep poetic. sensibility, and a manly, earnest and vigorous intellect. He has a true eye for beauty, and a true hand for painting vividly its glowing tints. What he has done, is only the herald of what he can do; for we believe, to use his own words, that there are still in his soul

Close up the Book! too perilously gifted

With the wild rapture of a Human Love-
All that fair woman-life so nobly freighted,
Wo for the wreck that sunk with night above!
Wo for the soul that pass'd through storm and shadow
The Immortal, still bound to the mortal part-
Alas! for me, my sadden'd thoughts grow sadder,
O'er this true record of a breken heart-

Close up the Book! while the last echo lingers

My Heart gives up its Dead, of other years-
Rerob'd in youth, by Memory's busy fingers-
The vanish'd Past renewed again appears :
Each Human Heart hath its own secret History,
A written record whereon none may look---
Now, as of old it must remain a mystery
Unsolved-unread-O, then close up the book!

NOVEMBER.

November is gone. Farewell old friend,— and in bidding adieu to none of thy predecessors has my hand grown to their's with a

As a poet, we give him our sincere admi-warmer or a longer pressure. True, it was ration; as a Southerner, we view him with slow to relinquish the gentle clasp of the fresh national pride, and a prophetic hope that young April and the blushing May, as it ever points proudly to an enduring and well-earned reputation.

CLOSE UP THE BOOK.

BY MRS. E. J. EAMES.

Close up the Book! it is too sad a history

E.

Of one unhappy, hopeless Human heart-
Nor thou-nor I-can ever solve the mystery
Which shadowed o'er her spirit's nobler part.
No hand save one could-or had ever lifted
The outer fold that veiled her inner life,
A life full-passionate-and richly gifted
With all rare thoughts-and earnest actions rife!

Close up the Book! albeit a common story—

My inmost spirit thrills to each charmed line:
The light-the gloom-the agony-the glory-
Gives back an answer from this heart of mine.
Clearly my own experience seems recorded

In the deep love-lore of this mournful tale,
The hope-the faith-the loyal vow, low worded--
The rapturous bliss the heart dream form'd to fail!

Close up the Book! a life of bondage splendid-
Even while her feet earth's darkened pathway tred;
Youth--Beauty, Genius, on her steps attended,
The while she yearn'd to rest in peace with God:
On world worn fetters pin'd the Immortal Spirit-
And bent beneath its Burden of Unrest-
The gift of many griefs she did inherit
A heavy cross on her poor heart was prest!

lingers long in the soft palm of the fairest maiden in the dance-to prolong the thrill of pleasure thence derived. But in bidding adieu to November, the feeling is like that of parting with our last friend as we set out on some dreary and solitary journey. For the winter months are the middle ages of the year, and their winds and frosts and snows which "the iron North pours tempestuous from her frozen caves," the Goths and Vandals, which sweep the fruits and flowers of Autumn "down the gulf of all devouring night,"-no, not all devouring, for the seeds and vital principle still remain, and when April again opens the year, the one shall germinate, the other renew its mysterious movement, and Nature again rejoice in flowers and verdure. May we not suppose the human intellect to have its cycles,its Spring, Summer, Autumn and Winter, as Nature has? May we not imagine old Egypt to have awaked from a long of the world, to become in arts, science and winter, the middle ages" of that period. literature, the Spring, of which Greece and Rome were the Summer and Autumn ? Each cycle too may be characterized by its peculiar superiority-that last in the grand