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?— 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, Where it springs from the earth in a crystal lake, For the sun pours over its dazzling sheen, Is pale and tender; And in midnight splendor The stars look down from the arching skies, And folds his wings In the sturdy oak that towers above, * 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, While the playful air On its saucy wings catches their fragrant breath, 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. 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 Or the coming of strangers, Or with naught to disturb his fancies wild, Wended his way through the gloom profound Or dreamily glided over the stream, By the faithful light of the North star's beam, As he hunted the deer or fished in the river: In every clime, in every age, A trouble sweet, a torturing thrill, |