POEM.

I walk these ancient haunts with reverent tread And seem to gaze upon the mighty dead; Imagination calls a noble train

From dust and darkness back to life again.

[VIRGINIA: a Poem by J. R. THOMPSON.

Down the steep, misty crags of antique time
Leaps many a torrent in a surge sublime,
Pouring along its mystic flood, till, pale
And dim, it bursts in some sequestered vale,
Some valley of the Past, lone and remote,
Where myths and legends fancifully float
In mists through which Tradition and Romance,
ASTARTE-twins, above the torrent glance;
Where splendid hues illumine each rugged fact
Which, rock-like bounds the rushing cataract;
Where purple shadow o'er each scene descends
And Poesie her soft enchantment lends;
Where vanished things-the very simplest-glow
With a strange beauty, which doth float and flow
Around them, in such rich and gorgeous dyes
As Autumn's sunsets mingle in our skies.

Our hist❜ry, Brothers, such grand torrent makes;
This spot, the valley where in spray it breaks,
Which, wreathed in columns or dispersed in dews,
Takes from the Past its varigated hues.
And here we meet, this sacred day apart,
To muse in solemnness of mind and heart,
While over us, like banner, floats the mist
By fair Romance and bright Tradition kist.
And, through these mists, what epic scenes arise!
What storied pictures start before our eyes!
What grand, historic forms, superb and vast,
Loom through the vapors gathered o'er the past!
While high above is seen God's awful hand
Writing, my Brothers, slowly out, His grand,
Sublime decree, which the great Genoese
Transcribed of old upon the mighty seas—
Transcribed with those three keels which long ago
Fretted the billows into wakes of snow,

While through sad days and nights devoid of sleep,
He ploughed the bosom of the azure deep.

The keels which sailed upon that sultry morn―
When priestly chant and deep sonorous horn
Broke on the summer air; when, all agape,
The speculative throng saw them escape
Their moorings in the tranquil, sunny bay-
Those caravellas-went upon God's way.

And though ten thousand storms have swept the deep,
And calms have lulled it in delusive sleep—
Though, for long ages, it has tossed and yearned,
As starlight shone, or crimson sunset burned-
Still on the ocean-type though it may be
Of all that's boundless, unsubdued and free-
Remains the record to all time unfurled,
How God gave man, the second time, a world.

One heaven-directed genius laid his hand
Upon the hilt of Providence; the brand
Required the force of the human race

To draw it from its scabbard's resting place---
Ages to wield it in the noble van

Which gave this Western Hemisphere to man.
Fain would I linger on that splendid age,
To which he gave its very brightest page;
Fain sing his god-like majesty of mind,

Which looked right onward-never glanced behind,
While, 'neath his brow, lit with the glow of hope,
It, toiling, cast the whole world's horoscope.
Fain would I paint his griefs in those sad hours
When all his hopes seemed like the last year's flowers;
Fain follow him through all his dreary years

Of pain and poverty and bitter tears;

From convent porch to regal palace gate,
Tracing his footsteps as he charged on Fate,
Which built new ramparts in his path each day
Until his brow was knit--his dark locks grey.

Fain would I pause at Palos, when the breeze
His caravellas swept toward unknown seas;
Fain follow where his daring vessels sped,
Strange tides beneath---strange planets overhead;
Fain would I dwell upon that happy day,
When, on the new-found shore, he knelt to pray:
That Easter-day, when, with the great seas' boom,
Making the music of his mass, the tomb
Gave up his dream, which, now in beauty rose,
Like CHRIST awakened after His repose.

Was this the thought! CHRIST'S was the name he gave

To that fair island smiling on the wave.

And the poor Indian! would I might narrate
His piteous story and his tragic fate!

A great mind tells us, that, on all earth's sods,
Men crucify, and then adore, their gods;
There 'twas reversed---in blood the land was dyed,
And deities their vot'ries crucified.

Had I the space, I well might pause to scan
The varied fortunes of this wondrous man ;
Might follow through those ever sunny isles,
Where Nature wears her very sweetest smiles;
Deck'd in a crown of ever-blooming flowers,
Of richer hues and sweeter still than ours;
Where purple twilights tint the evening seas,
And calm stars write their solemn mysteries
In skies which seem to be the azure shield,
Where God's own arms are blazon'd on the field---
Where strand and ocean--earth and star-lit sky
With one accord give "Atheos" the lie.

But to be brief: for images apace
Crowd on my fancy, claiming each a place,
As stars claim places in a tranquil night--
So thick they come-but not, alas! so bright;
In brief, then, Brothers, to my humble song
I've made the prelude ample thus and long,
As some musician, who distrusts his art,
Will hum a bar before he takes his part.
But not alone for this, have I delayed;
For other purpose, too, my fingers strayed
Along the harp strings, as 'twere in a dream
My purpose was to weave into my theme
These humble praises of the brain profound
Which, wrapped in slumber, all its era found;

Yet woke the age from its long, fevered sleep-
Roused by the voices of the mighty deep.

And though Spain's Admiral slumbered in the grave,
He left a beacon blazing o'er the wave,

And, as years sped, the light he left waxed great,--
The light he'd stricken from the flint of Fate---
Rousing all Europe, as that flame antique
Awoke to triumph the exultant Greek.

At last the visions, vast and undefined,
Which long had gathered in the general mind,
Marched forth in actions; and the age's crest
Flickered with fires enkindled in the West,

A splendid plume! which flamed and flared and flowed
As, lance in rest, the era westward rode.

What dreams men dreamt beneath the general spell,
What visions saw---I need not pause to tell.
Nor how the tide of human fate was rolled

Upon its course by love of fame or gold,

Nor how that flood was stained in this fair clime

By blood and tears---rapacity and crime.

I

pause not now, to speak of RALEIGH's schemes, Tho' they might give a loftier bard fit themes,

pause not now, to tell of Ocracock,

Where Saxon spray broke on the red-brown rock; Nor of my native river, which glides down Through scenes where rose a happy Indian town; But, leaving these and Chesapeake's broad bay, Resume my story in the month of May,

When England's cross---ST. GEORGE's ensign flowed Where ne'er before emblazoned banner glowed--When English hearts throbbed fast, as English eyes Looked o'er the waters with a glad surprise--

Looked gladly out upon the varied scene,

Where stretched the woods in all their pomp of green;
Flinging great shadows-beautiful and vast,
As e'er upon Arcadian lake were cast.
Turn where they would---in what direction rove,
They found some bay, or wild, romantic cove,
On which they coasted through those forests dim,
In which they heard the never ceasing hymn
That swelled from all the tall, majestic pines---
Fit choristers of Nature's sylvan shrines!
For, though no Priest their solitudes had trod,
The trees were vocal in their praise of God,
Wailing grand passages and bars sublime,
To which Religion in their hearts beat time.

And then, when capes and jutting headlands past,
The sails were furled against each idle mast,
They saw the sunset in its pomp descend
And sky and water gloriously contend
In gorgeousness of colors, red and gold,
And tints of amethyst together rolled,
Making a scene of splendor and of rest

As vanquished day lit camp-fires in the West.
And when the light grew faint on wave and strand,
New beauties woke in this enchanting land;
For through heav'n's lattice-work of crimson bars
Like angels, looked the bright, eternal stars.
And then, when gathered tints of purplish brown,
A golden sickle, reaping darkness down,
The new moon shone above the giant trees
Which made low music in the evening breeze;
The breeze which floating blandly from the shore,
The perfumed breath of flow'ring jasmine bore;
For smiling Spring had kist its clust'ring vines
And breathed her fragrance on the lofty pines.

In those vast forests dwelt a race of kings,
Free as the eagle when he spreads his wings--
His wings which never in their wild flight lag-
In mists which fly the fierce tornado's flag;
Their flight the eagle's! and their name, alas!
The eagle's shadow swooping o'er the grass,
Or, as it fades, it well may seem to be
The shade of tempest driven o'er the sea.

Fierce, too, this race, as mountain torrent wild, With haughty hearts, where Mercy rarely smiledAll their traditions-histories imbued

With tales of war and sanguinary feud,

Yet though they never couched the knightly lance,. The glowing songs of Europe's old romance

Can find their parallels amid the race

Which, on this spot, met England face to face. And when they met the white man, hand to hand, Twilight and sunrise stood upon the strand--Twilight and sunrise? Saxon sunshine gleams. To-day o'er prairies, and those distant streams Which hurry onward through far Western plains, Where the last Indian, for a season, reigns.

Here, the red CANUTE, on this spot, sat down,
His splendid forehead stormy with a frown,
To quell, with the wild lightning of his glance
The swift encroachment of the wave's advance;
To meet and check the ruthless tide which rose,
Crest after crest of energetic foes,