EXCELSIOR. THE shades of night were falling fast, His brow was sad; his eve beneath The accents of that unknown tongue, In happy homes he saw the light Of household fires gleam warm and bright: "Try not the pass!" the old man said; "O stay," the maiden said, "and rest "Beware the pine tree's wither'd branch! Beware the awful avalanche !" This was the peasant's last good-night; At break of day, as heavenward A voice cried through the startled air, A traveller, by the faithful hound, There, in the twilight cold and gray, THE RAINY DAY. THE day is cold, and dark, and dreary; And the day is dark and dreary. My life is cold, and dark, and dreary; Be still, sad heart, and cease repining; Some days must be dark and dreary. MAIDENHOOD. MAIDEN! with the meek, brown eyes, In whose orbs a shadow lies, Standing, with reluctant feet, Gazing, with a timid glance, O, thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands,-Life hath snares! Like the swell of some sweet tune, May glides onward into June. Childhood is the bough where slumber'd Bear a hly in thy hand; Bear, through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, O, that dew, like balm, shall steal And that smile, like sunshine, dart WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS. [Born, 1807.] THE author of "Guy Rivers," "Southern Passages and Pictures," etc., was born in Charleston, South Carolina, in the spring of 1807. His mother died during his infancy, and his father soon after emigrated to one of the western territories, leaving him under the guardianship of a grandmother, who superintended his early education. When not more than nine or ten years old, he began to write verses; at fifteen he was a contributor to the poetical department of the gazettes printed near his home; and at eighteen he published his first volume, entitled "Lyrical and other Poems," which was followed in the next two years by 66 Early Lays," and "The Vision of Cortez and other Pieces," and in 1830, by "The Tricolor, or Three Days of Blood in Paris." In each of these four volumes there were poetical ideas, and occasionally weil-finished verses; but they are worthy of little regard, except as indications of the early tendency of the author's mind. When twenty-one years old, Mr. SIMMS was admitted to the bar, and began to practise his profession in his native district; but feeling a deep interest in the political questions which then agitated the country, he soon abandoned the courts, and purchased a daily gazette at Charleston, which he edited for several years, with industry, integrity, and ability. It was, however, unsuccessful, and he lost by it all his property, as well as the prospective earnings of several years. His ardour was not lessened by this failure, and, confident of success, he determined to retrieve his fortune by authorship. He had been married at an early age; his wife, as well as his father, was now dead; and no domestic ties binding him to Charleston, he in the spring of 1832 visited for the first time the northern states. After travelling over the most interesting portions of the country, he paused at the rural village of Hingham, in Massachusetts, and there prepared for the press his principal poetical work, "Atalantis, a Story of the Sea," which was published at New York in the following winter. This is an imaginative story, in the dramatic form; its plot is exceedingly simple, but effectively managed, and it contains much beautiful imagery, and fine description. While a vessel glides over a summer sea, LEON, one of the principal characters, and his sister ISABEL, hear a benevolent spirit of the air warning them of the designs of a sea-god to lure them into peril. Leo. Didst hear the strain it utter'd, ISABEL? The Charleston City Gazette, conducted by Mr. SIMMS, was, I believe, the first journal in South Carolina that took ground against the principle of nullification. Thy own unpractised eye may well discern The land, for many a league, to the eastward hangs, Isa. Wherefore, then, Should come this voice of warning? Leon. From the deep: It hath its demons as the earth and air, That sets their springs in motion. This is one, That swam beside the barque, and sang strange songs Leon. I do, I do! And, at the time, I do remember me, I made much mirth of the extravagant tale, Isa. I never more shall mock at marvellous things, Such strange conceits hath after-time found true, That once were themes for jest. I shall not smile At the most monstrous legend. Leon. Nor will I: To any tale of mighty wonderment I shall bestow my ear, nor wonder more; And yet, since this same tale we laugh'd at once, Perchance not all a dream. I would not doubt. Leon. And yet there may be, dress'd in subtle guise Of unsuspected art, some gay deceit Of human conjuration mix'd with this. As, from the books, we learn may yet be done- Isa. It is not so, Or does my sense deceive? A perch beyond our barque. Look there: the wave What dost thou see? Leon. A marvellous shape, that with the billow curls, In gambols of the deep, and yet is not Its wonted burden; for beneath the waves I mark a gracious form, though nothing clear The ship is wrecked, and ATALANTIS, a fairy, wandering along the beach with an attendant, NEA, discovers the inanimate form of LEON clinging to a spar. But what is here, Nea. One of the creatures of that goodly barque- That, from their distant homes, went forth in her, A'al. There is life in him And his heart swells beneath my hand, with pulse He is one, That, 'mongst them all, might well defy compareOutshining all that shine! Nea. He looks as well, In outward seeming, as our own, methinks- Such lips should give forth music-such a sweet [Kisses him. Leon. [starts.] Cling to me Am I not with thee now, my ISABEL? [Swoons again. Atal. O, gentle sounds-how sweetly did they fall From lips, that waiting long on loving hearts, Soon after the appearance of "Atalantis," Mr. SIMMS published, in the "American Quarterly," a review of Mrs. TROLLOPE'S "Domestic Manners of the Americans," which was reprinted, in several editions, in this country and in England; and in Martin Faber, 1833 appeared his first romance, the Story of a Criminal," parts of which had been 66 His "Southern Passages and Pictures" appeared in New York, in 1839, and he has since published Florida," in five cantos, and many shorter poems. They are on a great variety of subjects, and in almost every measure. Among them are several very spirited ballads, founded on Indian traditions and on incidents in the war for independence. His style is free and melodious, his fancy fertile and inventive, and his imagery generally well chosen, though its range is limited; but sometimes his rhymes are imperfect, and his meaning not easily understood. He is strongly attached to his country, but his sympathies seem to me to be too local. The rivers, forests, savannas, and institutions of the south, he regards with feelings similar to those with which WHITTIER looks upon the mountains, lakes, and social systems of New England. Mr. SIMMS is again married, and now resides in the vicinity of Charleston. He is in the meridian of life and energy, and is constantly writing and adding to his reputation. He is retiring in his habits, goes little into society, and keeps aloof from all controversies; finding happiness in the bosom of his family, among his books, and in correspondence and personal intercourse with his literary friends. He is a fine specimen of the true southern gentleman, and combines in himself the high qualities attributed to that character. THE SLAIN EAGLE. THE eye that mark'd thy flight with deadly aim, Had less of warmth and splendour than thine own; The form that did thee wrong could never claim The matchless vigour which thy wing hath shown; Yet art thou in thy pride of flight o'erthrown; And the far hills that echoed back thy scream, As from storm-gathering clouds thou sent'st it down, Shall see no more thy red-eyed glances stream For their far summits round, with strong and terrible gleam. Lone and majestic monarch of the cloud! No more I see thee on the tall cliff's brow, When tempests meet, and from their watery shroud Pour their wild torrents on the plains below, Lifting thy fearless wing, still free to go, True in thy aim, undaunted in thy flight, As seeking still, yet scorning, every foeShrieking the while in consciousness of might, To thy own realm of high and undisputed light. Thy thought was not of danger then-thy pride Left thee no fear. Thou hadst gone forth in storms, And thy strong pinions had been bravely tried Against their rush. Vainly their gathering forms Had striven against thy wing. Such conflict warms The nobler spirit; and thy joyful shriek Gave token that the strife itself had charms For the born warrior of the mountain peak, He of the giant brood, sharp fang, and bloody beak. How didst thou then, in very mirth, spread far Thy pinions' strength!-with freedom that became Audacious license, with the winds at war, Striding the yielding clouds that girt thy frame, And, with a fearless rush that naught could tame, Defying earth-defying all that mars The flight of other wings of humbler name; Morning above the hills, and from the ocean, With such calm effort as 't was thine to wearBending with sunward course erect and true, When winds were piping high and lightnings near, Thy day-guide all withdrawn, through fathomless fields of air. The moral of a chosen race wert thou, In such proud fight. From out the ranks of menThe million moilers, with earth-cumber'd brow, That slink, like coward tigers to their den, Each to his hiding-place and corner thenOne mighty spirit watch'd thee in that hour, Nor turn'd his lifted heart to earth again; Within his soul there sprang a holy power, And he grew strong to sway, whom tempests made not cower. Watching, he saw thy rising wing. In vain, From his superior dwelling, the fierce sun Shot forth his brazen arrows, to restrain The audacious pilgrim, who would gaze upon The secret splendours of his central throne; Proudly, he saw thee to that presence fly, And, Eblis-like, unaided and alone, His dazzling glories seek, his power defy, Raised to thy god's own face, meanwhile, thy rebel eye. And thence he drew a hope, a hope to soar, Even with a wing like thine. His daring glance Sought, with as bold a vision, to explore The secret of his own deliveranceThe secret of his wing-and to advance To sovereign sway like thine-to rule, to rise Above his race, and nobly to enhance Their empire as his own-to make the skies, The extended earth, far seas, and solemn stars, his prize. He triumphs and he perishes like thee! Breaks down the gloomy barrier, and is free! He mocks, as thou, the sun!-but scaly blinds . amaze. And thou, brave bird! thy wing hath pierced the cloud, The storm had not a battlement for thee; But, with a spirit fetterless and proud, Thou hast soar'd on, majestically free, To worlds, perchance, which men shall never see! Where is thy spirit now? the wing that bore? Thou hast lost wing and all, save liberty! Death only could subdue-and that is o'er: Alas! the very form that slew thee should deplore! A proud exemplar hath been lost the proud, And he who struck thee from thy fearless flight— Thy noble loneliness, that left the crowd, To seek, uncurb'd, that singleness of height Which glory aims at with unswerving sight— Had learn'd a nobler toil. No longer base With lowliest comrades, he had given his might, His life that had been cast in vilest placeTo raise his hopes and homes-to teach and lift his race. "Tis he should mourn thy fate, for he hath lost The model of dominion. Not for him The mighty eminence, the gathering host That worships, the high glittering pomps that dim, The bursting homage and the hailing hymn: He dies he hath no life, that, to a star, Rises from dust and sheds a holy gleam To light the struggling nations from afar, And show, to kindred souls, where fruits of glory are. WILLIAM G. SIMMS. Exulting now, he clamours o'er his prey; 'Tis triumph for the base to overthrow Around thy mountain dwelling the winds lie- A boor has sent the shaft that leaves them lone, THE BROOKLET. A LITTLE farther on, there is a brook With thought unchid by harsher din than came Hurried above me; or the timid fawn That came down to the brooklet's edge to drink, Even where I lay,-having a quiet mood, Thou smilest-and on thy lip a straying thought 39 THE SHADED WATER. WHEN that my mood is sad, and in the noise I turn my footsteps from its hollow joys, And sit me down beside this little brook: It is a quiet glen as you may see, Shut in from all intrusion by the trees, Few know its quiet shelter,-none, like me, And listening, as the voiceless leaves respire,- And all the day, with fancies ever new, And sweet companions from their boundless A gracious couch,-the root of an old oak, There, with eye sometimes shut, but upward bent, And still the waters, trickling at my feet, Wind on their way with gentlest melody, Hangs o'er the archway opening through the trees, How like-its sure and undisturb'd retreat, The bending trees that overshade my form; Thus, to my mind, is the philosophy The young bird teaches, who, with sudden flight, Until I lose him from my straining sight,- 2c2 |