And she,[1] whose light poetic tread Scarce sways the dewdrop newly shed Upon the rose-bud's infant head; Most meet to be the tender nurse Of virtue, wounded by the curse Of passion's fierce and lawless verse, Whose dulcet strain, with soothing pow'r, Can calm the soul in sorrow's hour, And scatter many a thornless flow'r: The thoughts that breathe in each soft line, Seem spirits from a purer shrine Than earth can in her realms confine. Yet mayst thou not, in mimic lay, Such lofty arts of verse essay? 'Twere but a vain and weak display. Be Freedom's bold, unfetter'd child, And roam thy native forests wild, Where, on thy birth, all nature smil'd; Dwell on the mountain's sylvan crest, Where fair Hygeia roams confest, Bright Fancy's ever honor'd guest: Mark the proud streams that onward sweep, And to old Ocean's bosom leap-- Majestic offspring of the deep. Their inspiration shall be thine, And nature, from that mighty shrine, Shall prompt thee with a voice divine! When thy free spirit is reveal'd, The spells within its depths conceal'd Will soon a golden tribute yield. In numbers free, by nature taught, Breathe forth the wild poetic thought, And let thy strains be Fancy fraught. Enough! my child! a parent's voice Would fain direct thy youthful choice To themes, majestic and sublime, The fruits of Freedom's favor'd clime. Enough! For thee has nature thrown O'er the wild stream a curb of stone, Whose pendant arch in verdure dress'd, Binds the tall mountain's cloven crest.[2] For thee the volum'd waters sweep Through riven mountains to the deep.[3] For thee the mighty cataract pours In thunder, through opposing shores; And rushing with delirious leap, Bursts the full fountains of the deep; A billowy phlegethon--whose waves Rend the strong walls of Ocean's caves. C. [Footnote 1: Mrs. Hemans.] [Footnote 2: The Natural Bridge.] [Footnote 3: Harper's Ferry.] For the Southern Literary Messenger. DEATH AMONG THE TREES. Death walketh in the forest. The tall Pines Do woo the lightning-flash,--and thro' their veins The fire-cup darting, leaves their blacken'd trunks A tablet, where Ambition's sons may read Their destiny. The Oak that centuries spar'd, Grows grey at last, and like some time-scath'd man Stretching out palsied arms, doth feebly cope With the destroyer, while its gnarled roots Betray their trust. The towering Elm turns pale, And faintly strews the sere and yellow leaf, While from its dead arms falls the wedded vine. The Sycamore uplifts a beacon-brow, Denuded of its honors,--while the blast That sways the wither'd Willow, rudely asks For its lost grace, and for its tissued leaf Of silvery hue.