The Spirit of the English Magazines

part of the day, and in the fullest exposure to the sun. It is found in mossy bogs, and on the borders of ponds and rivulets in moorland districts.

To the Round-leaved Sundew.

"By the lone fountain's secret bed,
Where human footsteps rarely tread,
'Mid the wild moor or silent glen,
The Sundew blooms unseen by men;
Spreads there her leaf of rosy hue,
A chalice for the morning dew,
And, ere the summer's sun can rise,
Drinks the pure waters of the skies.

"Wouldst thou that thy lot were given,
Thus to receive the dews of heaven,
With heart prepared, like this meek flower ?
Come, then, and hail the dawning hour;
So shall a blessing from on high,
Pure as the rain of summer's sky,
Unsullied as the morning dew,
Descend, and all thy soul imbue.

"Yes! like the blossoms of the waste
Would we the sky-born waters taste,
To the High Fountain's sacred spring
The chalice let us humbly bring:
So shall we find the streams of heaven
To him who seeks are freely given;
The morning and the evening dew
Shall still our failing strength renew."

The common furze, gorse, whins, -is not a bank of it beautiful, gleaming goldenly amid the summer woods, and scenting the thin mists that in morning hour float over the murmurs of the awakened river? Here are three feeling quatrains to that bank-and-brae-brightener-and

sweetener.

"'Mid scatter'd foliage, pale and sere, Thy kindly floweret cheers the gloom; And offers to the waning year

The tribute of its golden bloom. "Beneath November's clouded sky,

In chill December's stormy hours, Thy blossom meets the traveller's eye, Gay as the buds of summer bowers.

"Flower of the dark and wintry day! Emblem of friendship! thee I hail! Blooming when others fade away,

And brightest when their hues grow pale."

All the verses that ever were written on flowers, are good at least, we remember no bad ones. So spiritual in their balmy beauty, they inspire not only clods but clod-hoppers. A bunch of flowers suddenly held up before the eyes and nose of the veriest blockhead, makes him for a moment a bard-a poet. The delicate and sensitive 7 ATHENEUM, VOL. 5, 3d series.

mind, again, alive to the visitings of the spirit of beauty that goes glimpsing over the earth, can never be at a loss for joy as long as the daisies dance in the sunshine. Gentle reader! perhaps you never saw a daisy dance? Then are you much to be pitied. They go dancing up hill and down brae, in no regular figure, but overspreading the whole green floor in one indistinguishable gallopade. The sunbeams in which they swim along, settle; and lo ! in an instant all the dancers are motionless on their seats. They seem absolutely rooted to the groundand all their faces covered with blushes. But here is a cowslip, and we absolutely smell the sweetscented pale yellow blossom. But listen to a little lay in honor of the flower.

The Cowslip.

"Unfolding to the breeze of May,
The Cowslip greets the vernal ray;
The topaz and the ruby gem,
Her blossom's simple diadem;

And, as the dew-drops gently fall,
They tip with pearls her coronal.

"In princely halls and courts of kings
Yet few of those who see its beam,
Its lustrous ray the diamond flings;
Amid the torch-light's dazzling gleam,
As bright as though a meteor shone,
Can call the costly prize their own.

"But gems of every form and hue
Are glittering here in morning dew;
Jewels that all alike may share
As freely as the common air;
No niggard hand, or jealous eye,
Protects them from the passer by.

"Man to his brother shuts his heart,
And Science acts a miser's part;
But Nature, with a liberal hand,
Flings wide her stores o'er sea and land.
If gold she gives, not single grains
Are scatter'd far across the plains;
But lo, the desart streams are roll'd
O'er precious beds of virgin gold.
If flowers she offers, wreaths are given,
As countless as the stars of heaven:
Or music-'tis no feeble note

She bids along the valleys float;
Ten thousand nameless melodies

In one full chorus swell the breeze.

"Oh, art is but a scanty rill
That genial seasons scarcely fill.
But nature needs no tide's return

To fill afresh her flowing urn:
She gathers all her rich supplies
Where never-failing waters rise."

But let us now pensively turn over the leaves of the "Sacred

Melodies." Some of them are truly beautiful-and will bear to be read after the hymns of James Montgomery, of Heber, or of Keeble. Oh! that people who take pen in hand would but write from the heart! All men, women, and children, have hearts and we would fain believe not bad hearts either nay, good hearts,-till the Prince of the Air, feeling himself called on by thoughts, by incipient sinners unexpressed, alights before them unseen,

"And then a wicked whisper turns
Their hearts as dry as dust."

Then the corrupt become stupidand great prosers. Poetry breathes not, brightens not for such; yet once there was music in their souls, and in dim memory of the past they become versifiers poetasters, and without meaning to be impious, they tag-rag-and-bobtail the very verses of the Bible. But a truly pious man or woman always writes well on sacred subjects, for they always write from the heart; and in song the heart of a Christian justifieth itself before men and angels. Samuel Miller Waring was a pious man. Had he not been so, never could he have written the following lines:

"Thou, dear enthusiast, sayest,
None can like nature preach;
That in her fane thou prayest;
That woods and rills can teach;
Yes, more than e'er Ilyssus
Taught sages by his stream;
Or groves beside Cephissus,
That waved o'er Plato's dream.
"Then leave these vales below thee;
Come, stretch thine eagle eye,
And nature more will show thee
Of Him thou canst not spy.
Gaze on the fire-stream, pouring
Down Etna's viny steep;
Go where the billow's roaring
Is loudest on the deep.

"Where earthquakes mutter deadly,
And domes and turrets reel;
Where camel-bells pause dreadly,
Quench'd in the hot Samiel;
Where thunders roll before him,
And where his lightnings shine,
Bow, tremble, and adore him;
For this this God is thine.

"Yet see, through clouds storm-broken,
The dove-borne olive bough!

Take thou, and bind that token
Around thine awe-struck brow.
Then where his bow he spreadeth,
Behold him dark no more;
Him, who the wild waves treadeth,

Seek now on yon green shore. "Around his footsteps springing,

What wreaths embalm the air!
While hills break forth in singing,
Go, trace those footsteps there :
When morn's first beam from slumbers
Awakes the dewy flowers;
Or with that bird whose numbers

Charm starry midnight hours.
"To Him let rapture wing thee,
From heights where eagles dwell;
Or let the glad bee bring thee
Home to her thymy cell.
Where'er thou wilt, observe him

In things that fairest shine;
Then, joyful, fly to serve him,
For He-that God is thine."

There is something profound in the pathos of the lines addressed

"To the Magdalen."

"Yes, weep, O woman frail and fair;
Though tears that fall so fast
Amid that bright up-braided hair

Can ne'er efface the past.

"Though other drops, whose power divine Can wash thy stains away, Must plead e'en more than tears like thine; More holy still than they. "Had He who pardons bid thee bring Those tears his love to buy, That word had ne'er unseal'd the spring

That fills thy streaming eye.

"Ah 'twas not Sinai's flash that taught
That frozen fount to glow;
No-milder, mightier rays it caught;
And lo, the waters flow!
"Pour then thine odors-pour, and see,
In Him on whom they fall,
The vase of clay that holds for thee
Balm costlier far than all.

"More fragrant unction on that brow
Rests, where his father smiled:
He bears a brother's name; for thou,
Thou too art call'd a child.

"O wondrous!-pour a heaven of tears:
When sin's erased above,
How dark that record torn appears,
In the full light of love!"

We have room for one other strain. It is not without majestyand would do honor to a far higher name than that of Samuel Miller Waring.

"Peace! peace! swelling trump that repeatest The praises to victory given !

Let the harp with the chords that are sweetest, Sound softly- The banner of heaven!

Oh bring forth the cross-bearing banner! The banner! the banner of heaven!'

"Never blood of the vanquish'd imbrued it :
Those drops from the Victor did flow;
And the tears that alone have bedew'd it
Were shed o'er the wounds of a foe.

There is victory dwells in the banner
Of the Leader that bled for his foe.

"Yon standard, inwoven with flowers
From the groves where sages have trod,
And from Paradise too-how it towers!
'Tis all, save the banner of God.

Oh give us the banner!-the banner!
Bring forth the true banner of God !
"Whence came that fierce zeal that is glowing--
That would call down the flame from above?

Proud spirits their missiles are throwing :Ah, where is the banner of love?

The banner! oh bring forth the banner! Bring forth the mild banner of love!

"There are songs that break forth at its beaming,

As of warblers when dawning is bright; And hark! lo, the night-bird is screaming, As he flies from the banner of light.

'Tis holiness beams from the banner: It breathes round the banner of light. "Hurl it not where the trampler hath found it: Serene to the breeze be it given; And soft airs shall whisper around it,

This sure is the banner of heaven!'
Unfurl then-unfurl all the banner;
Every fold!-'tis the banner of heaven!"
Nay, we must quote yet another
little poem. What shall it be?
Peter Weeping.
"O strong in purpose-frail in power,
Where now the pledge so lately given?
Coward to creatures of an hour;

Bold to the challenged bolts of heaven!
"Shall that fierce eye e'er pour the stream
Of heart-wrung tears before its God?
Thus did the rock in Horeb seem,
One moment ere it felt the rod.

"But Jesus turns:-mysterious drops
Before that kindly glance flow fast;
So melt the snows from mountain tops,
When the dark wintry hour is past.

"What might it be that glance could paint ?
Did one deep-touching impress blend
The more than sage--the more than saint-
The more than sympathizing friend?
"Was it, that lightning thought retraced
Some hallow'd hour beneath the moon?
Or walk, or converse high, that graced
The temple's column'd shade at noon?

"Say, did that face to memory's eye,
With gleams of Tabor's glory shine?
Or did the dews of agony

Still rest upon that brow divine?
"I know not:-but I know a will
That, Lord! might frail as Peter's be!
A heart that had denied thee still,

E'en now-without a look from Thee!"

It is delightful to know that much poetry such as this is almost every

season stealing into existence, not transitory, since it lives in many gentle hearts, breathing its balm in quiet homes, like that of the favorite flowers that bloom in their parlor windows-even like the everblossoming rose that often sheds its beauty unheeded, but every now and then, both in gloom and sunshine, suddenly attracts the eyes of the inmates, and often wakes a silent blessing, almost a prayer. Such poems as these, of which the world takes little or no heed, are felt peculiarly to belong to those who have been so fortunate-so happy-as to meet with them by accident perhaps, or to have received them from the hand of some chance-acquaintance, who, after the pleasant gift, is thenceforth considered to be a friend. Albums might be repositories for such productions. By the way, speaking of Albums-thanks to Charles Lamb for his Album verses, so beautifully printed and got up by his young friend Edward Moxon, himself gifted with much poetical feeling and fancy, witness his "Christmas." Charles! we love the following strain :

Angel Help.

"This rare tablet doth include
Poverty with sanctitude.
Past midnight this poor maid hath spun,
And yet the work is not half done,
Which must supply from earnings scant
A feeble bed-rid parent's want.
Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask,
And holy hands take up the task;
Unseen the rock and spindle ply,
And do her earthly drudgery.
Sleep, saintly poor one, sleep, sleep on;
And, waking, find thy labors done.
Perchance she knows it by her dreams;
Her eye hath caught the golden gleams,
Angelic presence testifying,
That round her everywhere are flying;
Ostents from which she may presume,
That much of Heaven is in the room.
Skirting her own bright hair they run,
And to the sunny add more sun :
Now on that aged face they fix,
Streaming from the crucifix;
The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing,
Death-disarming sleeps infusing,
Prelibations, foretastes high,
And equal thoughts to live or die.
Gardener bright from Eden's bower,
Tend with care that lily flower!
To its leaves and root infuse

Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews.

'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge, Of a crowning privilege.

Careful as that lily flower,

This maid must keep her precious dower;

Live a sainted maid, or die
Martyr to virginity."

"Oh! rare Charles Lamb!"

THE EVE OF SAINT SIMON, IN COLOMBIA.

THE town of Achaquas, situated on the banks of the river Apure, derives some importance from the fact that it has ever been the habitual and favorite residence of "El Gefe de los Llañeros." Here the ferocious Paez has erected a house, which, by the bare-legged natives, may be deemed a specimen of architectural magnificence, as compared with the mud-built hovels that compose the residue of the town; with the exception, however, of the church and "Caza del Cura," which entirely occupy one side of a large though irregular square. "La Grande Plaza," as it is called, was, during the revolutionary struggle, the theatre of many sanguinary scenes. Hither were the prisoners of Paez and his followers led, and, under the scowling brow of the chief, inhumanly massacred; and although in just retaliation, perhaps, of Spanish cruelty, yet the refined barbarity with which these reprisals were conducted baffles description, and would indeed be deemed apocryphal by all save those who had the misfortune to witness them. Here, too, would Paez occasionally indulge his faithful adherents with the gratifying spectacle of a bull-fight, and the exhibition of his own wonderful prowess. On these occasions the chieftain would appear dressed in his native garb. The large white "calçonzillos," or drawers, loose at the knee, and not extending below it-a check shirt, open at the neck, and confined at the waist with a red or blue scarf, worn like our military sashes, and which supported the "cuchillo," or large knife, the ne

ver-failing appendage of a "Llañe-
ro"-the "sombrero de pallo," or
immense-rimmed straw hat, with a
white feather, the party emblem-
and the massive silver spurs, attach-
ed to the naked heel by thongs cut
from
bullock's hide-complete
this singular but picturesque cos-
tume.* Thus accoutred, and mount-
ed on one of his best-trained horses,
would Paez seek an encounter with
the fiercest bull that could be pro-
cured, his surprising agility and
consummate skill in horsemanship
enabling him to avoid the incessant
attacks of the furious animal, whom
he goads into unbounded rage, by
turns pursuing and pursued, till at
length, tired of the sport, he seizes
the beast by the tail, and, with Her-
culean strength, throws it upon its
back; then leaping from the saddle,
(amid the cheering acclamations of
the spectators,) with his "cuchillo "
puts a speedy termination to its
sufferings and life together. This
and cock-fighting, a sport of which
Paez is an enthusiastic admirer,
(having an immense number of these
birds in constant training,) are the
principal amusements, and tend to
feed the bloodthirsty propensities of
this lawless militia during the tem-
porary suspensions of their predato-
ry warfare. I here apply the term
"militia," such being, correctly
speaking, the collective appellation,
and attributes, of those more imme-
diately under Paez's command. A
body of three hundred men, half of
whom have the rank of officers, and
form a separate corps, bearing the
denomination of "Los bravos de la
guardia de honore,"† are in con-

* On duty, or on the march, a blanket of different colors (red or blue, being, however, the most prevalent), with a hole cut in the centre to admit the head, is usually worn, and forms a striking and not ungraceful upper garment.

† "El Gefe de los Llaneros," -Chief of the inhabitants of the Plains. "Caza del cura," -Curate's house. "La Grande Plaza,"-Great square. "Calconzillos,"-Short, loose

stant attendance on the person of the chief; and the gallant achievements which he has performed at their head, as also the individual feats of intrepidity displayed by this small band, (however well they may be attested,) would, to the generality of readers, appear incredible. In the event of any sudden emergency, an intended attack upon the enemy, or the necessity of acting upon the defensive, (by the by, a rare occurrence with Paez,) he could, at a very short notice, assemble three thousand men, who, from the facility which the plains afford him of procuring horses, form one of the most formidable and efficient cavalry forces ever embodied. Each man, whilst engaged even in the culture of his small plantation of Indian corn and sugar-cane, keeps his docile charger ready for instant action; and those who might neglect this precautionary measure - so astonishing is the power which the Llañero has obtained by practice in the manege-would, in the short space of an hour or two, be enabled to tame the unruly spirit of the wildest stallion, and render him fully adequate to all the purposes of guerilla service. Paez himself has a reserve of five hundred horses, which follow in the rear of all his expeditions, as a remount to himself and staff; and so jealous is he of his right of exclusive possession, that he has been known to refuse Bolivar (the then supreme chief of Venezuela) a single horse for his personal accommodation!

In addition to the amusements already described as forming the principal recreation of the motley inhabitants of the town and vicinity of Achaquas, each leisure moment was devoted to gambling; and so addicted were all classes to this vicious enjoyment, that tables were to be seen by day and night at the corners of the different streets, round which stood mixed groups of officers

and privates, and even women, all engaged in sacrificing to the blind goddess, amid the blasphemous curses of those whom Fortune betrayed. Paez himself, perambulating the town, would frequently mingle with one or other of these parties, and, by his presence, sanction a vice, the demoralizing effects of which eventually produced the most pernicious consequences, and which proved, indeed, the primary cause of the melancholy catastrophe which it will shortly be my painful task to record.

Ere I pursue the thread of my narration, however, it may prove agreeable to my reader to learn something of the personal appearance, character, and acquirements, of a chief whose present station, as head of the Venezuelan confederacy, and opposition to the misnamed "Washington of Colombia," renders an object of public interest.

José Antonio Paez is of robust though diminutive stature : his shoulders, of extraordinary breadth, support a short neck of unusual thickness (not unlike that of the enraged bull he delights in combating), and which probably occasions those fits which any strong excitement is sure to produce. This neck, in its turn, sustains a head of disproportionate dimensions, in which small dark eyes of uncommon brilliance light up a countenance where cunning seems the predominant expression: but cruelty lies concealed in his heart. Like the tiger crouching to spring on its prey, Paez is to be most dreaded when he evinces least anger. His features afford no intimation to the victim whose doom he meditates; and many a Spanish prisoner, lulled into fancied security by his smile, has found it but the harbinger to death. Brave even to temerity-if the savage ferocity of a wild beast may be termed courage-he dreads no foe, and will rush, unattended, into the midst of

drawers. "Cuchillo,"-Large knife. "Llanero,"-Man of the plains. "Sombrero de pallo,"-Straw hat. "Los bravos de la guardia de honore," -The "bravos" of the guard of honor.

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