Thy flag is furled upon the sea, Thy sceptre shivered on the land, And many a spirit mourns for thee Beyond the Lido's barren strand: Better thy towers were sunk below The level of Old Ocean's flow. Fair city of the fairest clime, Sad change hath come o'er thee-- The spirit voice of olden time Is wailing o'er thy sea; And matin bell and vesper chime Seem knelling for the free Who reared thy standard o'er the wave And spurned the chains that now enslave. [Footnote 1: The tops of many of the buildings are ornamented with a range of statues.] For the Southern Literary Messenger. THE GENIUS OF COLUMBIA TO HER NATIVE MUSE. A parent's eye, sweet mountain maid, Hath seen thee rise in Sylvan shade; And patient, lent attentive ear Thy first, wild minstrelsy to hear: And thou hast breathed some artless lays, That well deserve the meed of praise; For, nursed by spirits bold and free, Thy notes should breathe of Liberty. Yet some who scan thy numbers wild, Inquire if thou art Fancy's child, Or some impostor, duly taught To weave with skill the borrow'd thought. Then list, my child! Experience sage May well direct thy guileless age. Breathe not thy notes with spirit tame, Nor pilfer, from an honor'd name, The praise that crowns the sons of fame. Be not by imitation taught, To blend with thine, the vagrant thought, From Britain's polish'd minstrels caught. Full oft my mountain echoes tell, How Byron's genius fram'd a spell, Which reason vainly seeks to quell: Did not his spirit cast a gloom On all who shared his adverse doom, E'en from the cradle to the tomb? With intellectual treasures bless'd, With misanthropic thoughts possess'd, Their sway alternate fired his breast. He pour'd the lava stream alone, In torrents from that burning zone, Which girt his bosom's fiery throne. Enough! on his untimely bier Affection shed no hallow'd tear-- He claim'd no love--he own'd no fear.