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,

glide

Over the desert rock, whose sterile frown
Melts not beneath the soft and crystal tide,

So passes thy sweet strain o'er hearts of stone.
Thine outstretched hands, thy lips unuttered moan,
Thine orbs upturning to the darkened sky,
(Darkened, alas! poor boy, to thee alone!)
Are all unheeded here. They pass thee by :-

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,

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,

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;
No hand to guide thy darkling steps aright,
Or from thy pale face wipe th' unbidden tear.
I pity thee! thus dark and lone and drear!
Yet haply it is well. The world from thee
Hath veiled its wintry frown, its withering sneer,
Th' oppressor's triumph, and the mocker's glee:
Why, then, rejoice, poor boy-rejoice thou can'st

not see!

of the heart!

Hopeless! hopeless! Every path
Is with ruins thick bestrown;
Hurtling bolts have fallen to scathe
All the greenness of my heart
And I now am Misery's own--

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!
Nature in one fond woof our spirits wove:
Like wedded vines enclasping in the grove,
We grew.
Ah! withered now the hirer vine!
But from the living who the dead in move?
Blending their sere and green leav:, there they
twine,

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;
Or clamber, boastful, up the craggy brink,
Where the rent mountain frowns upon the flood
That thrids that vale of beauty and of blood,
Sad Wyoming! The whispering past will tell,
How by the silver-browed cascade we stood,
And watched the sunlit waters as they fell
(So youth drops in the grave) down in the shadowy
dell.

And how we plunged in Lackawana's wave;
The wild-fowl startled, when to echo gay,
In that hushed dell, glad laugh and shout we gave.
Or on the shaded hill-side how we lay,
And watched the bright rack on its beamy way,
Dreaming high dreams of glory and of pride;
What heroes we, in freedom's deadliest fray!
How poured we gladly forth life's ruddy tide,
Looked to our skyey flag, and shouted, smiled, and
died!

[one!

Bright dreams-forever past! I dream no more!
Memory is now my being: her sweet tone
Can, like a spirit-spell, the lost restore-
My tried, my true, my brave, bright-thoughted
Few have a friend-and such a friend! But none
Have, in this bleak world, more than one; and he,
Ever mine own, mine only-he is gone?
He fell as hope had promised-for the free:
Our early dream,-alas! it was no dream to thee!
We were not near thee! Oh! I would have given,
T pillow in my arms thy aching head,
All that I love of earth or hope of heaven!
But strangers laid thee in thy prairie-bed;
And though the drum was rolled, and tears were
shed,

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,
Mingle their spirits, and hereafter be

One in their nature, in their being one?
And may I not be blended thus with thee!
Parted in body, brother, bore not we
The self-same soul! Ah me! with restless pain,
My halvéd spirit yearneth to be free,
And clasp its other self: for I would fain,
Brother, be with the dead, to be with thee again!

THE PRIDE OF WORTH.

THERE is a joy in worth,

A high, mysterious, soul-pervading charm;
Which, never daunted, ever bright and warm,
Mocks at the idle, shadowy ills of earth;
Amid the gloom is bright, and tranquil in the storm.

It asks, it needs no aid;

It makes the proud and lofty soul its throne:
There, in its self-created heaven, alone,

No fear to shake, no memory to upbraid,
It sits a lesser God;-life, life is all its own!

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:
Give me but these, a spirit tempest-tried,

A brow unshrinking and a soul of flame, The joy of conscious worth, its courage and ita pride!

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!
My father! when they laid thee down,
And heap'd the clay upon thy breast,
And left thee sleeping all alone

Upon thy narrow couch of rest-
I know not why, I could not weep,
The soothing drops refused to roll-
And oh, that grief is wild and deep

Which settles tearless on the soul!
But when I saw thy vacant chair—

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,
THE tattoo beats; the lights are gone;
The camp around in slumber lies;
The night with solemn pace moves on;
The shadows thicken o'er the skies;
But sleep my weary eyes hath flown,
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.

I think of thee, oh, dearest one!
Whose love mine early life hath blest;
Of thee and him-our baby son-
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast:-
God of the tender, frail and lone,

Oh, guard that little sleeper's rest!
And hover, gently hover near

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!