under the title of "Bible Breathings," some portions of which have appeared in the periodicals. "Aylmere" is his principal production, and its merits as a poem are not less remarkable than those it possesses as an acting play. The hero, known in history as JACK CADE, AYLMERE, MENDALL, OF MORTIMER, leader of the English peasantry in the insurrection of 1450, is a noble subject for a republican dramatist, and Judge CONRAD has presented him in the splendid colors of a patriot, sharing the extremest sufferings of the oppressed masses, knowing their rights, and braving all dangers for their vindication. The influence of institutions upon literature is strikingly illustrated in the different treatment which “ Mr. JOHN AYLMERE, physician," as he is styled in contemporary records — a man of talents and discretion, according to the best authorities-receives from SHAKSPEARE, who pleases a court by contemptuous portrayal of his own peer in social elevation, and from Judge CONRAD, wo, "in the audience of the people," delineates a man of the people as possessed of that respectability which justifies his eminence. The vehement, daring, and aspiring character of AYLMERE, softened and harmonized by a fine enthusiasm, is happily contrasted with the gentle nature of his wife, which is delineated with much delicacy, and presents frequent occasions for the author to show that conspicuous as are his powers as a rhetorician, displayed appropriately in the passionate declamation of the master in the play's movement, he is not less at home in passages of repose and tender grace. The other principal poems of Judge CONRAD, are The Sons of the Wilderness," and a series of " Sonnets on the Lord's Prayer," marked alike by earnestness, vigor, and pathos; and in his volume are a considerable number of shorter pieces, of which some of the most characteristic are here copied. The finest examples of his imagination, passion, and skill in the details of art, are undoubt edly to be found in his dramatic poems, but from these it is extremely difficult to make satisfactory extracts, so dependent for its effect is every sentence upon the lines to which it is in relation, or the character or situation of the person speaking. ON A BLIND BOY, SOLICITING CHARITY BY PLAYING ON HIS FLUTE. "Had not God, for some wise purpose, steeled The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted, And barbarism itself have pitied him." TI8 vain! They heed thee not! Thy flute's meek tone THE STRICKEN.* HEAVY! heavy! Oh, my heart Seems a cavern deep and drear, From whose dark recesses start, Flutteringly, like birds of night, Throes of passion, thoughts of fear, Screaming in their flight. Wildly o'er the gloom they sweep, Thrills thine own breast alone. As streams that Spreading a horror dim-a woe that cannot weep! glide Over the desert rock, whose sterile frown So passes thy sweet strain o'er hearts of stone. Weary! weary! What is life But a spectre-crowded tomb? Startled with unearthly strifeSpirits fierce in conflict met, In the lightning and the gloom, The agony and sweat; Passions wild and powers insane, Away! Those tears unmarked, fall from thy And thoughts with vulture beak, and quick Pro sightless eye! To echo to their soft appeal:-depart! Go seek the noiseless glen, where shadows reign, Spreading a kindred gloom; and there, apart methean pain! Gloomy-gloomy is the day; Tortured, tempest-tost the night; Fevers that no founts allayWild and wildering unrestBlessings festering into blightA gored and gasping breast! From their lairs what terrors start, From the cold world, breathe out thy pensive strain; At that deep earthquake voice—the earthquake Better to trees and rocks, than heartless man, complain! I pity thee! thy life a live-long night; No friend to greet thee, and no voice to cheer; not see! of the heart! Hopeless! hopeless! Every path We never more shall part! My spirit's deepest, darkest wave Writhes with the wrestling storm. Sleep! sleep! the grave! the grave! "Turn thou unto me, and have mercy upon me; for? am desolate and in misery."-PSALMS MY BROTHER.* FOREVER gone! I am alone-alone! Yet my heart doubts; to me thou livest yet: Love's lingering twilight o'er my soul is thrown, E'en when the orb that lent that light is set. Thou minglest with my hopes- does Hope forget? I think of thee, as thou wert at my side; I grieve, a whisper-he too will regret;" I doubt and ponder-“how will he decide?” I strive, but 'tis to win thy praises and thy pride. For I thy praise could win-thy praise sincere. How lovedst thou me- with more than woman's love! And thou to me wert e'en as honor dear! And will, till dust to dust shall mingle mine with thine. The sunshine of our boyhood! I bethink How we were wont to beat the briery wood; And how we plunged in Lackawana's wave; [one! Bright dreams-forever past! I dream no more! The tear-drop trickling, turns my cup to gall; E'en as the hour that bade thee, brother, die, Mingles with all my days and poisons all, Mantling my life with gloom, as with a dead man's pall. Oh, may not men, like strings that chord in tone, One in their nature, in their being one? THE PRIDE OF WORTH. THERE is a joy in worth, A high, mysterious, soul-pervading charm; It asks, it needs no aid; It makes the proud and lofty soul its throne: No fear to shake, no memory to upbraid, The stoic was not wrong: There is no evil to the virtuous brave; Or in the battle's rift, or on the wave, Worshipped or scorned, alone or 'mid the throng, He is himself-a man! not life's nor fortune's slave Power and wealth and fame Are but as weeds upon life's troubled tide: A brow unshrinking and a soul of flame, The joy of conscious worth, its courage and ita pride! HENRY R. JACKSON. [Born 1810.] HENRY R. JACKSON is a native of Savannah, Georgia, and was educated at the Franklin College, in Athens. He was several years one of the editors of the "Savannah Georgian," but on the invasion of Mexico, in 1846, joined the Georgia | volunteers, as a colonel, and continued in the army until the close of the war. In 1849 he was elected by the legislature one of the judges of the Georgia eastern circuit, for four years, and in 1853 received the appointment of Minister. Resident of the United States at the court of Austria. Mi JACKSON is the author of "Tallulah and other Poems," published in Savannah in 1850. In this volume are several pieces of uncommon merit. That entitled My Father," and one addressed from the battle-field of Camargo, "To My Wife and Child," are marked by simplicity and genuine feeling, as others are by an enthusiastic affection for his native state, her scenery, traditions, and institutions. MY FATHER. As die the embers on the hearth, And o'er the floor the shadows fall, And creeps the chirping cricket forth, And ticks the deathwatch in the wall, I see a form in yonder chair, That grows beneath the waning light; There are the wan, sad features-there The pallid brow, and locks of white! Upon thy narrow couch of rest- Which settles tearless on the soul! Thine idle hat upon the wallThy book-the pencilled passage where Thine eye had rested last of allThe tree beneath whose friendly shade Thy trembling feet had wandered forthThe very prints those feet had made, When last they feebly trod the earthAnd thought, while countless ages fled, Thy vacant seat would vacant stand, Unworn thy hat, thy book unread, Effaced thy footsteps from the sandAnd widowed in this cheerless world, The heart that gave its love to theeTorn, like a vine whose tendrils curled More closely round the fallen tree!Oh, father! then for her and thee Gushed madly forth the scorching tears; And oft, and long, and bitterly, Those tears have gush'd in later years; For as the world grows cold around, And things take on their real hue, "Tis sad to learn that love is found Alone above the stars, with you! MY WIFE AND CHILD, I think of thee, oh, dearest one! Oh, guard that little sleeper's rest! To her, whose watchful eye is wetThe mother, wife-the doubly dear, In whose young heart have freshly met Two streams of love, so deep and clearAnd cheer her drooping spirit yet! Now, as she kneels before thy throne, Oh, teach her, Ruler of the skies! That while by thy behest alone Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise, No tear is wept to thee unknown, Nor hair is lost, nor sparrow dies; That thou canst stay the ruthless hand Of dark disease, and soothe its painThat only by thy stern command The battle's lost, the soldier slain; That from the distant sea or land Thou bring'st the wanderer home again. And when, upon her pillow lone, Her tear-wet cheek is sadly pressed, May happier visions beam upon The brightening currents of her breast,Nor frowning look, nor angry tone Disturb the sabbath of her rest! Wherever fate those forms may throw, Loved with a passion almost wild— By day, by night-in joy or wo By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiledFrom every danger, every foe, Oh, God! protect my wife and child! |