VOL. IX.

THE PRIZE POEM.

The readers of the Messenger will remember, that in the December number, the late lamented Editor, upon the suggestion of a spirited correspondent, offered the premium of a silver cup for the best poem which should be presented to, and approved by, a Committee appointed for that purpose. That Committee has had a meeting, consisting of all its members, and after due consideration has awarded the prize cup to Miss Evelyn H. Taylor, of Virginia, for the subjoined stanzas addressed to "A new pen." The task of selection, under such circumstances, is always unpleasant and invidious. The competitors for the prize having had entire freedom in the choice of a theme, their contributions were, of course, various in measure, style and subject. Some were beautiful and successful imitations of established English authors; others were distinguished for smoothness, beauty, and even vigor of composition, but none seemed, in the eyes of the Committee. to combine, with some of these qualities, so much originality as the production of Miss Taylor. The public, however, will have an ample opportunity to judge for itself, as, under the reserved right to do so, many of the poems, which, if not favored with the awarded prize, are nevertheless prized highly-will be published in the present and future numbers of the Messenger.

TO A NEW PEN.

Lie there! lie there! still pure as unstained snow-
Guiltless as yet-but innoccat, how long?
Clear as are infant hearts from Passion's flow-
Unheard, unknown, yet capable of song-
Of song, whose silent music thou shalt trace,

In characters of Thought, that Time shall ne'er efface.

Thou art the Soul's Recorder, and thy course

Takes with it Good and Evil-separate never
Since Life's full fount was poisoned at its source,
When Eden faded from the Earth forever-
And thou, fast stealing o'er the darkened page,

NO. 3.

Can'st thou, too, pierce the dark and shadowy tomb,
And follow him who reigned, to bondage in its gloom?
And art thou sad, and do those foolish tears,

That gush from Woman's heart in every time,
And bathe her broken ties, through hopeless years.
Even though they bound to Tyranny and Crime-
Say, do they lure thine art, and gleam again,
As when they left their fount, drawn forth by Grief with
Pain?

Doth the deep Beauty of still Death with thee
Find everlasting fixedness, and lie
With the cold infant on its mother's knee,

Or the stern warrior's rigid majesty?
Or on the cheek and bosom, more than snow,
When gentler Loveliness lies pure, and calm, and low?
Or dost thou bring the light of winged Joy

The sadness of old musings to destroy,
Our path to follow, and its shades to banish-

And bid grey frowning forecast instant vanish?
Linking us in companionship so gay,
That the young Angel need but point, to guide our way.
Art thou familiar with the thoughts of Love?

Can'st thou pour forth his heart in seen affection?
Can'st thou join earthly hopes with souls above,
Binding the severed in such strong connection
That sorrow's self can patient be, and smile,
And look for holier things, and wait "a little while?"

Art thou all powerful thus, and yet mine own?
Mine! Though the word no ardent impulse stir,

It makes thee dear, whilst here I muse alone,

And signs to Hope that Truth may dwell with her. Yea, thou art mine, when many, once more dear, Have left their fresher faith, and dwell no longer here.

Quiet, but mighty! From thy silent work,

How starts to life the vanished world of Time ! Mysteries but late divined around thee lurk-

The thoughts of Angels, and the hopes of Crime-
And Man's first dreams, long buried in the Past,
Called from their depths by thee, there mingle with his last.

Glorious Bard! Rare Painter! Lyrist high!
Historian of the giant deeds of old!

Interpreter of centuries gone by!

Untomber of the Dead, whose mighty mould Accorded with great works-their awful traces

Still shed Time's shadow down, on pigmies round their bases.

What! Can'st thou tongue the Pyramids, and send
The voice of Ages through a new creation?
Can'st thou reveal Fate's progress-guess her end-
And chronicle her Pomp and Devastation?
Can'st thou exhume old Egypt's buried Kings,
To revel in vast Halls, amidst forgotten things?

Is the high Feast, with all its living Guests,

Within the enchantment of thy crowded spell? Can'st thou among them bring white Death, that tests The Heart, and bares it to itself so well?

VOL. IX-17

And my soul's atmosphere must make thy clime. Loved, true, habitual Friend, thy voice shall steal, Even when it breathes their strength, all woes this breast can feel.

And thou shalt give its melody of love,

Its light of Hope, its joy of faith in God,
Life in this world (as, I will trust, above,

Their immortality shall find abode.)
And thou shalt answer every varying mood,
Not as mankind reply-returning ill for good.
Fate writes her fiat in the glittering Heaven-

God stamps his Will on Fate, and worlds obey.
What language, humblest Thing, to thee is given?
To thee-to all that are, and pass away?
Even the fresh utterance of the soul, that brings
Its ardent gush of praise, to seek the King of kings.

Such be Thy glory-'midst all other themes,
The first-the last-to consecrate thy power.
Heaven be the brightness of our earthly dreams,

And Mercy of our last, and happiest hour,

When, through the gates of Death, pure light shall stream, And Home and Peace with God, on an Immortal beam.

Of planetary worlds,

Character, Feeling, Passion, Life and Death

Guide on upon the white and asking page,

But so restrict the Past and Present Age,

That He who scans all deeds the skies beneath, Heaven's just Recorder, on what Thou hast wrought, May fix a gaze serene-approve-but copy nought.

EVELYN H. TAYLOR.

The following poems were offered for the prize cup awarded to Miss Taylor, and they are too highly esteemed to be withheld from the readers of the Messenger. They will be followed by others in the April and May numbers.

THE HERMIT'S LESSON OF LIFE.

In orient lands, where Magi dwelt of old,
And Priests and Prophets, fate and fortune told;
Where virgin Sybils in prophetic tones,

The future show'd-the rise and fall of thrones;
Where rapt magicians wrought their mystic spells,
And each wild cavern owned its weird cells;
Where every mountain cave and mossy grot
Was haunted by some spirit of the spot;
In later days a traveller chanced to roam,
A dreaming wand'rer from his native home.
Yet young in manhood-with ambition rife,
But all uncertain in his plans of life,

In search of pleasure, but with nought content,
Restless and weary, wheresoe'er he went ;
For honor hoping, and a thirst for fame,
Desiring truth and burning for a name,
Yet to his heart there often came despair,
For aimless passion was pulsating there.
Anon, he felt, in some propitions hour,
A kindling sense of intellectual power,
And airy fancies floated thro' his mind,
That Glory's guerdon was for him designed;
Yet came the fear, he ne'er should reach that goal,
So wav'ring was the purpose of his soul.
In mood like this, he went his restless way,
Where desolation brooded o'er decay-
Where crumbling columns mark'd the classic clime,
And falling temples told the ancient time.

As thus he roam'd, a rumor met his ear-
"There was a mountain, and a cavern near,
"Where, shunning all communion with his race,
A reverend hermit had his dwelling place;
"Who lived-for so the ignorant had said—
،، With demons there, and spirits of the dead ;
"Who sought, by lawless rite and magic spell,
The secrets of the future time to tell."

With feelings mov'd by all he heard and saw,
The wand'rer turned to find that man of awe,
Resolved his fate to know, or good or ill,
He wish'd to try the Seer's fearful skill.

He found the wise man, and he spoke him fair,
The hermit mock'd the wand'rer's earnest prayer;
Absorbed in studies of sublimer sort,

He reck'd not for the dreamer's foolish thought.
Entreated still-he lent attentive ear,
And answered kindly, yet with mien severe.

"Child of the world," he said with solemn tone, "What is and has been may by man be known, "But much you err, if you suppose his skill

Can fathom Fate, or scan his Maker's will; 'Tis not permitted mortal man, to see "The future purpose of the Deity.

Dan Lonesome was a wight of gentle blood
As any in this Western Hemisphere;

It had not "crept through scoundrels since the flood,"
And he could trace it up, through many a year,
Far as his country could her lov'd career-
No stain on it could tongue calumnious fling;
Old heads could trace it higher-do not jeer,-
Up to the days of some old Saxon king,
But if they could-to do it, were an empty thing.
II.

His home, I wot, it nothing boots to tell,

Save that 'twas somewhere in that Old Domain, Which once wished monarchy, 'tis said, so well, She honor'd Charles, and loth'd base Cromwell's reign; Right gladly had she rear'd Charles' throne again, And did resolve, if that might not be won, T" invite him hither, cross th' Atlantic main, To hold for us, the sceptre and the crownAh! well-a-day that deed!-what mischief it had done

III.

Certes, the times are wondrous changed, when we
The very name of King can scarce abide,
Since we have quaff'd thy cup, sweet Liberty!
But let us not our Ancestors deride;

Sly Cromwell ceas'd his cloven foot to hide;
Gain'd were his ends, that subtle Archimage,
And all his canting cunning, laid aside,
The Tyrant open stalk'd upon the stage;

The play was still the same,-they had but turn'd the page.

IV.

How changed the features of that virgin land,
Adorn'd by windings of innum'rous streams,
And wrought by Nature, with most lavish hand,

And warm'd by influence of her softest beams!Still smiles that land, and still with wealth it teems, But where her palaces of sumptuous ease?

Where now her lofty nobles and their dreams? Her gardens parks-her shady walks and ways? Where all the stately doings of her royal days?

V.

Gone, with the foolish hopes which gave them birth;
Nipp'd in the very bud of their display;
Crush'd by the hand of Freedom, in her mirth,
And spared the anguish of a slow decay ;-
Such Edens were not made to waste away
Beneath the griping hand of pamper'd pride;
No-they were fashioned for a gentler sway,
That there, untrammell'd man might safely bide,
And waft his golden treasures down their glassy tide.

VI.

But what of Dan?-no misanthrope was he-
He felt all kindness towards his fellow men;

But yet in paths alone he loved to be,

Mid waving woods or on sequester'd plain,
His joys and griefs all hid from mortal ken;

Both wealth and friends had he, and pleasant home,
Yet more, he coveted the lonely glen,

Or down some winding rivulet to roam,

Where gentle cascades left white wreaths of transient foam.

VII.

There would he sit, while eagerly he scann'd
Some wild romance, with worn and dusky lid,
Of Haunted Priory with bloody hand,

Or old Chateau, in deepest myst❜ry hid,
Where glided ghosts, and secret pannels slid—
Then fell the curtain on this mortal vale;

Of earth and all its shackles he was rid;
So rapt his soul by Fancy's high-wrought tale:
Compared with bliss like his, all other blisses fail.
VIII

For him, these fictions had a charm divine;
Here gallant youths were his companions dear-
He trod with them, o'er Alps and Appenine,

Where bandits lurk'd amid the forests drear
And lights were seen to glance and disappear-
Soft maidens, too, whose superhuman charms
Won every heart, were his peculiar care,
Till nobly rescued from ten thousand harms

He saw them safely lock'd in love's triumphant arms.
IX.

Dreams of the day! oft would ye Dan invite
On grass to lie, in summer shade supine,
While Fancy plum'd her wing for pleasant flight,
And bore him upward to her halls divine;
No hope defeated, there could make him pine;
No cup untasted, from his lips be thrown;
No light receding ever, there could shine;

But whatsoe'er of joy to mortals known
Arrived at, was at once, and easy, made his own.
X.

Who does not thus, at times, gay castles build,
'Yelept in air?-a name that suits them well;
For though more splendid far than works of Eld,
More passing rare than all which ever fell,
(Balbec's-Palmyra's-none could them excel,)
Yet in a moment, they will topple down,

Nor leave one marble column, spared to tell
The tale of ruin, and in grandeur frown
Amid the crumbling relics of a past renown.
XI.

Such oft are standing seen, 'mid that decay

By Goth and Vandal, most inhuman, wrought; And Goths and Vandals still, in modern day, Will break irruptive on one's chosen spot, Though all unwelcome, and invited not; Misfortunes-Griefs-pale Care-tormenting DebtThen, Fancy! all thy revelry's forgot,

Reluctant, up from our sweet couch, we get,

And homeward, frowning hie, to toil and writhe and fret.

XII.

But such the Artist's most surprising skill,
That, like enchantment of the olden rhyme,
"Tis but to ramble forth, where all is still,

And wave a wand-when, in an instant's time,
Her shining Palaces will upward climb-

Not so, those works barbarians overthrew ;

None know to raise them to such heights sublimeLost are those arts by which they tow'ring grew, And we but gaze to sigh-and curse the hand which slew. XIII.

Of late, by whim or fantasy impell'd,

"A change came o'er the spirit of his dream"His love of solitude seem'd now dispell'd;

Some gayer vision in his fancy teem'd;

Perchance bright eyes had through his darkness, beam'd: I know not what-but forth the loiterer went; "Like standing pool" his sombre visage "cream'd," And I, who mark'd him, deem'd his mind intent

On some fixed thought, or deed, with hope and fear, 'yblent. XIV.

To sadness prone, he, melancholy wight,

A wand'rer-where, I only cared to know, Sat gazing out upon wide waters bright,

And from the Sidney watch'd their ceaseless flow; The waves were roaring round her baried prow; Unnumber'd vessels skimmed Potomac, blue;

Swift hurrying by the white beach seem'd to go; Fast, fast behind, the trees and green hills flew, Till Vernon's mournful walls broke on his thoughtful view. XV.

Loud rang the bell-on board that flying ship

Full many a pilgrim hastened to her side;
Mount Vernon! broke from every joyous lip,

And grateful hearts were swelling there with pride:
Men from far countries with the native vied-
Oh Heavens! it was a goodly sight to see;
But chiefly Dan, there, silently we eyed
Our young Virginian gazing wistfully,

And with a filial love, Mount Vernon! upon thee.
XVI.

Fix'd there he stood, while strong emotions rose;
That time-worn mansion fills his dreamy soul;
A holy awe around it virtue throws,

And days of by-gone years, before him roll;