Once happy was the hall of Home, Now Desolation's lair-- Blood stains its hearth, and I must roam A pilgrim of despair, Leaving, when heart and brain grow cold, My weary bones in foreign mould. [Footnote 3: The Ensign of Poland is a White Eagle.] THE FORTUNES OF A SOUTHERN FAMILY. A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT. BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. PART I. "Oh! it is pleasant for the good to die--to feel Their last wild pulses throbbing, while the seal Of death is placed upon the tragic brow; The soul in quiet looks within itself, And sees the heavens faintly pictured there." Now, would that I could wield as magic a pencil as did Benjamin West, that mighty paint-king, how quickly would glow upon canvas one of the most beautiful and magnificent landscapes that ever entranced the eye of a scenery-loving traveler--a landscape upon which you might gaze enraptured every day for years, as I have done, and yet never tire nor grow less fond of beholding it. I would paint for your especial gratification, a living, a breathing picture of my old homestead, endeared by so many joy-fraught hours, and the surrounding scenery, through which I roved until I knew its every nook and corner as well as my dog-leaved spelling-book, by the venerable Dilworth. But, as it is, dear reader, I must be content to offer you a rude "_pen and ink sketch_," excavated from the ruins of my childhood recollections of as exquisitely beautiful and picturesque a spot as ever riveted the human gaze. Imagine, for a moment, that we are standing upon a ledge of moss-grown rocks, projecting from a red hill-side, and whose verge beetles over a foaming river, which swirls and rages amongst the uplifting crags, flashing with diamonds in its rush and impetuosity, and then, placid and almost waveless, creeping on through the gnarled old forest with a faint murmur, seeming like a huge serpent of silver asleep in the gushing sunshine.