As if Destruction, Famine saw, and further work for

getting,

Sated, sang to herself a song of sweet content.

And evening came; and o'er the pall of smoke

That draped like funeral crape, the desolate ramparts

far;

"Night drew her sable mantle," (and over hearts, that broke

In anguish none can paint,) " and pinned it with a star!"

And as it mates came out, and one by one

Pierced through the murky veil, like diamond flashes, They paler grew, as saw they, where they shone, But crumbling walls, and smouldering heaps of ashes!

The gentle moon looked sorrowful and trist,

And round her drew a circling bow of tears; And hid her radiant face behind the cloudy mist, As mourning weepers veil their sighs, and throbs and prayers.

And am I done? and is my story told?—
Told quite, in all its varied, saddened phases
Of hopes that rose as Titans rose of old,

To war with Fate and powers in highest places?

Hopes, that sprang agile as Minerva armed,

From head of Jove, to wrestle fierce with might; Hopes, that each trusting, valiant bosom warmed As heart breathed unto heart, the magic watchword— "Right!"

THE FALL OF RICHMOND.

As draws the night its curtain o'er the world,

As stars that fade before the sunlight's shimmer,

45

Our hopes were paling as our banner there we furled, And scarce remained of all their light, a flickering glimmer.

Beneath that city's blackened, crumbling walls,

A nation's hopes lie crushed, to be exhumed― never (?)

As falls the stars from Heaven-when Freedom falls, The light of Hope dies out-dies out, alas! forever!

And now I sit and mournful sing the song,

Whose heart refrain is, "Shall we e'er be free?" Shall Phoenix-like those hopes from ashes spring ere long?

Or Rachel mourn bereft for aye-a nation's Niobe?

NEW YORK, MARCH 18, 1867.

The Story of the Powhatan.*

BY VIRGINIA MADISON. (MISS S. A. BROCK.)

DOWN from the rocky heights it comes,
Of the old Blue Ridge!

Where it springs from the earth in a crystal lake,
O'er which the lights and shadows break
In a sportive glimmer;

For the sun pours over its dazzling sheen,
Through a tangled mass of evergreen-
And the moonlight's shimmer

Is pale and tender;

And in midnight splendor

The stars look down from the arching skies,
With a courting smile in their cheery eyes,
As the night-bird sings,

And folds his wings

In the sturdy oak that towers above,
Sheltering the treelets with his love-
His arms enclasped with the towering pine,
And lifting high the tendriled vine;
While granite boulders stand around,
In silence grim, in awe profound,
Unbroken, save by the birds, and the stream

* The name given by the early settlers to James River.

THE STORY OF THE POWHATAN.

Which breaks through the rocks like a silvery gleam,

And, as on it rushes

In music gushes,

And merrily roams

A single stone might bridge.

But onward it wends its busy way,

And kissed by the flowers that margin its banks,
In murmurous glee it gurgles its thanks;

While the playful air
A-wandering there,

On its saucy wings catches their fragrant breath,
As it lovingly steals from its velvety sheath,
And freighted with odors coquettishly plays
Like a wanton child in the sun's bright rays;
And laughingly sports o'er the little stream
That flashes along like the lightning's gleam
In its beauteous course, until
Others commingle:-yet still
It pauses never,

For now a river

This streamlet has grown,

And its musical tone

Is deeper and louder,

And stronger and prouder,

As it ripples and breaks, 'gainst the boulders grey.
And the giant sycamore rears its head
O'er fragile willows, that bending spread
Their feathery boughs on the river's breast,
That a kiss returns ;--but never at rest,
It rolls along in a mightier flow,
Broader, and deeper, and still and slow-
Like muffled thunders, deep and low,

47

In the brooding storm-its waters

go,

That no longer a stone may bridge!

Once, on its banks the red man trod, And worshipped untutored his heathen God. The smoke of his wigwam 'mid the trees Was lifted and sported by every breeze; While in and out the tim'rous deer,

And the panther fierce, and the hungry bear From the stream would slake their thirst, When a cry exultant would oft-times burstA savage yell

Through brake and dell,

Was the voice that wakened the echoes around
And throbbed on the air with a mocking sound
When o'er his shoulders he strapped his quiver,
And his birch canoe, launched on the river,
Onward would float o'er the glassy stream,
Like his arrow's flight, or the fire-fly's gleam;-
Not dreaming of dangers,

Or the coming of strangers,

Or with naught to disturb his fancies wild,
This happy, free-born forest child

Wended his way through the gloom profound
Of his vast and lordly hunting-ground;

Or dreamily glided over the stream,

By the faithful light of the North star's beam,
To where was the home of the Indian maid
Round whom his loving fancy played,

As he hunted the deer or fished in the river:
For in the breast of man there dwelleth ever,
Whether in savage or in sage,

In every clime, in every age,

A trouble sweet, a torturing thrill,