A lazy sluggish “bayou”--as all the small watercourses in this country are Frenchifically termed--glorying in the name of the “Tensas,” runs, or rather creeps, by the door, before which--on the margin of the stream--stands one of those grand alluvial oaks which could canopy an army. The day is rather sultry; a soft wind is moving its branches, on the topmost one of which is perched a mocking-bird; how wildly he carols, how blithesome his every movement! Happy fellow! the barn-yard, the ploughed ground, the berry-laden tree, all furnish him with food. Nature clothes him annually, and the leafy branch be neath shields him from the cold, when clouds and dark ness gather around. Happy fellow! he can sing with a light heart; his wants are few, and easily supplied. Would that the “Swamp Doctor” had as little care pressing upon him, that he might join you in your song; would that his necessities were as few and as readily provided for! Then, too, he could mock at the world, then, too, sing like thine a joyous strain; but poverty, youthfulness, the stranger's want of loving sympathy, chill the rising ardour of his song, and fling him back upon the cold wave of the world. But away, care, for the present! away, forebodings of the future! Be as in former days, Swamp Doctor, joyful at heart--thou hast sung in strains as wild as that winsome bird's! Let the harmony that pervades the air paint for thee the future; and of bygones, “let the dead Past bury its dead!” Thou hast sung, Swamp Doctor! Then tune afresh thy harp, and give one strain before thy “first call” shall still with its responsibilities thy harp, and clothe with sober seriousness thy youthful heart. Sayest thou so, fair bird? then will I obey. My seat is beneath thy oak--thine I call it, for early residence hath given thee a pre-emption to it, surely--thy song is pouring through my heart, the wave at my feet is glistening in the morning sun, the soft branches overhead rustle and mingle in joyful greenness, yet I cannot sing of these fair scenes; not of them can be the burden of my song. Manhood had not set its seal upon my form; yet not fifty holds an older heart than beats within my breast. In despite of myself my thoughts are with my calling, with the sick and suffering who are yet to cast their eyes upon my face, and from it draw their bright hope or withering despair. What, then, so proper, since sing I must, as breathing a soft prayer to the patron saint of the healing art, and invoking his assistance in my future course? THE SWAMP DOCTOR TO ESCULAPIUS. Wrapt in the gloom of Superstition's age, The trade of Chance and men of low degree, Long lay the Art which teaches to assuage The many pangs that mankind heirs, to be, The Art which stills the maniac's fiery rage, And bids the horrors of his vision flee; Which soothes the pain its power cannot destroy,