Verses Written During an Excursion Among the Alleghany Mountains [pp. 93-94]

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
93
to be developed among our northern brethren, cannot
be mistaken. Free from slavery themselves, the relations in which it stands to our citizens and our governmentcannot be rightly estimated by them. Abstract
speculation, mistaken philanthropy, fanatic zeal in the
cause of freedom, may exclaim-the rights of man
must be vindicated-the crusade must be commenced
against the violators of humanity-opposition must be
borne down by the strong arm of government. But let
the day come when a northern majority shall in madness interfere in this delicate subject, and our union as
freemen is gone forever. Civil war and bloodshed will
deface and destroy the beautiful proportions of the
temple of freedom. The Crsar of America will arise
to bind together the disjointed fragments of the edifice
with the chain of Despotism.
Means for averting these ills are to be sought.
Where shall we look for them except in the general diffusion of intelligence among the people? Spread knowledge among the people, and their minds will be awakened to a due sense of the value of our firee institutions. They will be quick to detect ambition, aiming
under a false pretence of public utility, at private aggrandizement. They will be ready in discerning the
true interests of the nation, however designing men
may endeavor to blind their perception. They will
cultivate that liberal, compromising spirit, which submits to partial evil for the general good. Yea, they
will cherish that patriotism which in the hour of danger will stand by the republic, and seal with the blood
of freemen the "esto perpetua" of the Union.
TRANSLATION.
There are few exercises of poetical talent more frequent than translations of the Odes of Horace; and
there is perhaps none of these on which more men have
tried their pens, than the 22d of the first book. Of all
that we have ever met with, we think none superior to
the following. Were it even inferior to the best efforts
of the well trained pupils of Eton or Westminster, it
would be interesting as the production of a Virginian.
It was written some sixty years ago, as a school exercise by a pupil in the grammar school of William and
Mary. We find it in the hand writing of J. Randolph
of Roanoke, on the blank leaves of an old copy of Horace, where it is recorded that the age of the writer was
fourteen. Comparing it with the early compositions of
Pope or Byron,'the reader will be apt to ask, "What
became of the author?" The answer will be found in
the history of the Polish wars, in which he acted a conspicuous part. Late in life he returned to his native
country, and lived and died in voluntary obscurity. It
is believed that few men possessed more of the confidence and esteem of the unfortunate monarch to whom
he devoted his services than General Lewis Littlepage.
We have no reason to believe that these lines were
ever published. They are all that remain of an extraordinary man, and we are pleased to think that by
giving them a place in the Messenger, they may be
preserved.
Fuscus, the Man, whose quiet heart
No conscious crimes molest,
Needs not the Moor's envenomed dart,
To guard his guiltless breast.
Sate he may range Getulia's sands,
Virtue and Peace his guides,
Or where the desart Garma stands,
Or famed Hydaspes glides.
Late, as I ranged the Sabine Grove,
Beyond my usual bounds,
And, void of care, I sang my Love,
In soft melodious sounds,
Sudden I nmet, without defence,
A Wolf in fierceness bred;
But, awed by peaceful innocence,
The savage monster fled.
Not scorched Numnidia's thirsty fields,
Where tawny Lions feed,
Nor warlike Daunia's dreary wilds,
So dire a monster breed.
Remove me far from cheer ftil day,
To night and endless shades,
Where not a bright celestial ray
The awful gloom pervades:
Or place me near the solar blaze,
Beneath the burning Zone,
Where no refreshing breeze allays
The influence of the Sun.
Still shall the memory of my Love,
Her soft enchanting smile,
Her charming voice, my woes remove,
And all my cares beguile.
VERSES
Written during an Excursion among the Alleghany Mountains.
How calm and glorious is the hour of night
In these uncultured solitary wilds,
When o'er each lowly vale and lofty height
The fulll-orb'd moon in cloudless lustre smiles.
Those lofty mountains with their forest green
And craggy summits tow'ring to the skyHow proudly do they rise o'er all the scene,
And lift the thoughts from earth to muse on high!
Anrid yon pure rivulet that pours along,
Playing and sparkling in the moon-beams clearHow sweet the music of its vesper song
In tuneful cadence falls upon the ear!
And hark! the roar of these far spreading woods,
Sinking or rising as the winds sweep by!
Myriads of voices fill these solitudes,
And send the notes of melody on high.
While all his works with one accord rejoice,
And pour forth praises to the Great Supreme,
Shall man unmoved withhold his nobler voice
Nor glow with raptures on the glorious theme?
His bounteous goodness all creation fills, Even these wild woods where solitude prevails;
He sends his dews upon the untrodden hills,
And flowers he scatters o'er the lonely vales.
VOL. II.-13
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