"Villain!" I exclaimed, seizing him at the same time, with strong indignation, by the arm, "it was you who killed this man! You have poisoned him, and I will have you drowned for it." The old man replied with great composure, and without the least symptom of fear--"if you believe it was I who raised the wind which blew the tree across the lodge and killed the woman and child, then you may believe that I poisoned this man." I was struck with the justness of the defence, and said nothing more to the prophet. * * * * * For the Southern Literary Messenger. ON THE DEATH OF JAMES GIBBON CARTER. O'er the fam'd seat of science and of arms, What dire disaster spreads such wild alarms? What requiem sad is chanted o'er that bier? Why streams the silent, sympathetic tear? Why droop the ensigns of our sister state, As though they mourn'd a fallen nation's fate? In long procession through the crowded hall, With measur'd footsteps and uncover'd pall, Columbia's youthful chivalry appears With crape-clad banners, and with trailing spears; Whilst o'er each head funereal cypress bends, And the sad streamer from each arm descends; They weep the young--the noble--and the brave, Consign'd by "doom" to an untimely grave; Ere manhood stamp'd its image on his brow, Or gave his lips the soldier's gen'rous vow, Snapt was this scion in an evil hour. Nor ling'ring death, nor sickness claim'd their pow'r; But full of life--joy sparkling in his eye-- The fell destroyer came, commission'd from on high, And Carter perish'd! Casuists, be still! Was it without his mighty Maker's will? Has not Omnipotence itself the pow'r To bring repentance in the final hour? Oh sad vicissitudes of earthly trust-- Hopes--bright as seraph's smile, consign'd to dust! Here would we drop the veil o'er mortal woe, Or give the dark'ning picture brighter glow, But Truth forbids. At duty's call we come To paint the horrors at his distant home. Lo! by the patriot's couch a group appears, Repressing anguish, and restraining tears; Though at the effort nature's self recoils, (For nature claims her tributes and her spoils,) Brief are the hours which now the sick man claims, Nor asks he more, since Zionward he aims: The feeble sands of life are almost spent-- Dim is his eye--his locks with silver blent; He, with the Patriarch of eld, may say, "Short, but replete with woe, has been my day." Then spare the agony his heart must know, Ere waning life should sink beneath this blow. But, oh! the Mother's desolated heart! What charm can sooth--or what a balm impart? Her hope--her stay--snatch'd to an early tomb, Involving life itself in tenfold gloom! MARCELLA. For the Southern Literary Messenger. LINES. When in my life's propitious morn The sun of joy and hope once smiled, Fair Poesy, of Pleasure born, Each fancied sorrow oft beguiled.