through the waving curtains of her couch.
At length the white blaze of the moon went out, and the misty morn looked dim and sad over the sleeping city. Throwing a cloak about her, Clara hurried down the stairs, and, opening the door softly, found herself in the street, at an hour she had never before been there. What a strange and dreary aspect every thing seemed to wear! The windows of the houses, as she passed, were all closed, and no one could be seen but dozens of loitering negroes returning from market, or here and there some industrious landlady with a small basket of vegetables on her arm, and closely veiled, hurrying along as if to escape observation, followed by a servant with the day's provisions in a large basket, which she carried steadily upon her head. Every one who met her turned and stared curiously; and as she hurried over the long crossing of Canal street, and threaded her way between the hacks that had already taken their station, she felt that rude eyes, and ruder sneers were upon her. She paused not for an instant, however, but redoubled her speed until she reached the private entrance to the St. Charles, where, leaning for a moment against a column, she beckoned a woman from the saloon of the baths into the vestibule, and, putting a piece of money into her hand, whispered, "Find out the chamber of Mr. Medwin. He is very sick, and a dear friend of mine – I must see him immediately."
The woman disappeared up the stairs leading to the "office" of the hotel, and, returning in a moment, made a sign for Clara to follow.
As they approached, a noise and bustle were apparent at the further end of the corridor, and several servants were hurrying in and out, as if some sudden accident had occurred. Clara's guide pointed out Medwin's room, and she rushed in – feeling certain in her heart that her lover was dying.
He lay stiff and stark upon the sofa, with a few white froth bubbles gathered upon his lips, and a letter clasped tightly in his hand. It seemed that he was not yet dead, for a physician, who had been hastily summoned, was attempting to force open his mouth, as if to administer a restorative to the dying man. As Clara approached, he stared in astonishment, but she heeded him not, and exclaiming, "Oh, Charles, what frightful dream is this!" threw herself on her knees before him.
Life rallied for an instant, and he opened those wild, fearful eyes. Oh! what a world of wretchedness and despair was in that glance! He knew her; and conquering, with a convulsive effort, the agony which was withering up the last drops of life, caught her to his heart, exclaiming,
"Clara, thou art forgiven! I am not a coward; for I can even die and leave thee thus. Farewell! be happy!"
All was over. My poor friend had fought his last battle, and his antagonist and conqueror was Death. That pure and noble spirit, with all its wild and restless fever-dreams, "sleeps well" amid the beautiful solitudes of Cypress Grove Cemetery – the home of the stranger– where so many proud and buoyant hearts crumble beneath the golden air, new filled with odorous dew. And I wait patiently, yet sadly, for the hour which is to restore me to the friend of my bosom.
THE ANCIENT AND THE MODERN MUSE
The Muse, in times more ancient, made
The grove's thick gloom her dwelling-place,
And, queen-like, her proud sceptre swayed
O'er a submiss and trembling race.
When stirred her breath the sleeping trees,
Awe-struck, with fearful feet they trod,
And when her voice swelled on the breeze,
Adoring bowed, as to a God!
Her wildly murmured strains they caught,
As echoes from the spirit-world,
Till reeled the brain, to frenzy wrought,
With mixt amaze and rapture whirled!
Thus stern, retired, she swayed the earth,
Till, as new dawned an age of gold,
A happier era led her forth
To dwell with men, like gods of old.
To dwell with us – to roam no more!
Ours is this golden age of bliss!
She comes with blessings rich in store;
And, like a sister, whispers peace.
Not now with awe-inspiring air,
But gentle as the meek-eyed dove,
And clad in smiles that angels wear,
And with an aspect full of love.
She greets us at our fire-sides, when
Sweet looks to accents sweet respond,
And breathing soft her tender strain,
More closely knits the silken bond.
Unmingled joy her smiles afford,
Where meet the mirthful, social throng,
As, gathered round the festive board,
Our healths she pledges in a song.
She meets us in our private walks,
'Mid groves that fairy glens embower,
When Morning gems her purple locks,
Or Vesper rules the silent hour.
Her hand, upon the beech's rind,
Marks well, for fair Belinda's eyes,
(Else vainly murmured to the wind,)
Thy flame, young Damon, and thy sighs.
Stern Toil, beneath her gentle sway,
Well pleased, unbends his rugged brow —
With Bloomfield chants the rustic lay,
Or guides with Burns the daisied plough.
Her form appears the bow of peace,
Upon the clouds that darken life,
Now bidding Sorrow's tears to cease,
And staying now the hand of Strife.
She smiles on me, no bard inspired,
But wand'rer o'er life's arid waste,
Who, fainting, halting, parched and tired,
One cordial, nectared drop would taste.
Companion of the pure in heart,
She tunes the lyre to David's flame,
And rapt, as mortal scenes depart,
She hymns the heaven from whence she came!
THERESA, OR GENIUS AND WOMANHOOD
CHAPTER I
What sad experience may be thine to bear
Through coming years;
For womanhood hath weariness and care,
And anxious tears;
And they may all be thine, to brand the brow
That in its childish beauty sleepeth now.
Theresa Germaine was a child some six years of age when I saw her first, nearly twenty-five years ago. It is a long time to look back on; but I well remember the bright, winning face, and cordial manners of the little lady, when she would come to the parsonage and enliven our tranquil hearts by her gay, spontaneous glee. She was full of life and buoyancy; there was even then a sort of sparkling rapture about her existence, a keen susceptibility of enjoyment, and an intense sympathy with those she loved, which bespoke her, from the first, no ordinary being. Ah, me!
