When green leaves clasp with murmurs, thrilling murmurs deep and

strong,

Like whispered words that lovers breathe, who have been parted long; 'Twas loving thus that severed them, and yet in love they meet, As leaves, still bending to and fro, the same soft sounds repeat.

I love the wind at morning, when it wakes the honey-bee,
And bears him on to waken all the blossoms on the lea.

As the early breeze sweeps by me, I almost see it pass,
With dew-bespangled vesture, trailing softly through the grass.

I love the wind at noontide; then its warm, low murmurs come,
Like voices of affection, like fond messages from home.

It whispers: "I've been sporting through thy father's soft, gray hair,
And singing like an angel round thy mother's old arm-chair.

"I stirred the holy pages of the Bible as she read,

And shook away a tear-drop which upon the leaf was shed;

But my breath was warm and glowing, and my wing was light and free,
And they loved the Southern wanderer because he came from thee."

I love the wind at evening, when rich, purple clouds sweep by,
Like mourners, gathering silently to see the daylight die;
When silvery vapors westward, like white-winged eagles, soar,
Or white-sailed vessels floating to a distant golden shore.

I love the wind at midnight,—when it seems to sigh and wail,
And shiver, 'neath its mantle spun of moonbeams cold and pale,
With shadows waving round it, like a wreath of raven hair,
It seems to look upon me,

the solemn midnight air.

The night-wind is a minstrel, who for centuries has sung,
And darkness is the temple where his mighty harp is hung;
"Tis strung with rays of starlight, and I love to hear him sweep
Those mystic chords, till Nature chants an anthem in her sleep.

And when the angry storm-king from his thunder-cavern springs,
To hush the night's low music, and to break her starry strings,
The wind forgets to murmur, and goes shrieking wildly by,
A demon, clad in tempest-robes torn madly from the sky!

Then his harp is strung with lightning, and he laughs to see it shine,
Hanging high upon the splinters of some riven mountain pine;
Ha! my heart leaps up in wonder, when the tall trees bend and nod,
As if they strove to worship, when the storm-wind sings of God.

IN MEMORIAM.

GENERAL JOHN H. MORGAN.

PAR NOBILE FRATRUM.

He comes not a victor, yet covered with glory;
All hail to your hero-though fallen and bound
By the fetters of death, immortal in story,

As if he had come to you conquering, crowned!
Droop low the torn banner of Dixie above him,
The proud cause he fought for in ruin is lost,
And the light of his fame, to the many who love him,
Pales now in remembering how dearly it cost.

Let foes in their malice so ready to strike him,
Stand silent-he heeds not
he heeds not his bright course is run,
Alas! where so few, had the many been like him,
The lost cause he died for perchance had been won.
Brief tales of his daring--all noble, half reckless

Through battle's dark chaos come drifting from far, Insufficient! as gleams adown space broad and trackless, To tell us the splendor of some vanished star!

Love's requiems chant; let the deep-throated organ
Sob dirges-behold a dead hero doth come,
Honor, rest in your midst, for the brave fallen Morgan,
Rejoice that he pines not, an exile from home.
Make a grave in the fair land he loved-it is better
To pierce the proud eagle than break its wild wing!
The lion to slay than his long limbs to fetter,
Or hold him in prison, no longer a king!

And where ye infold him make room for another,
Who offered up youth in its fresh morning pride,

To mix with the fierce, noontide fame of his brother:

Both are quenched — give them glory, and rest, side by side. A shrine in your hearts, a home 'neath your daisies,

A page in your story, too bright to be lost!

May souls so heroic win laurels and praises

Eternal, beyond where the dark stream is crossed.

LEXINGTON, April 17th, 1868.

AGNES LEONARD.

THIS lady was born in Louisville, Kentucky. She is a daughter

of Dr. O. L. Leonard, who was for many years celebrated as a "mathematician." He practised medicine in the city of Louisville for many years; yet desirous of giving his children the best possible educational advantages under his direct supervision, he gave up his practice as a physician, and took charge of the Masonic College, at La Grange, Ky., and was afterwards President of the Henry Female College, at New Castle, Ky. His views concerning education were somewhat peculiar and very original. Agnes was taught to write before she could read, and could write a letter at the age of five years, and before she knew a printed letter. She studied Algebra and the elementary principles of Geometry when she was seven years of age, and when she was only thirteen, began to write for the press. Her first article was a short effort at versification, which was published in the Louisville "Journal," and noticed by George D. Prentice, the godfather of so many Southern writers, as follows :

"A young girl, twelve years of age, sends us a piece of poetry, written when she was only ten. Though hardly worthy to be published, it indicates the existence of a bud of genius, which, properly cultivated, will expand into a glorious flower."

name.

Since this début, Miss Leonard has written almost constantly, under the nom de plume of "Mollie Myrtle," but of late years under her own In 1863 a collection of her earlier efforts appeared in bookform, under the title of "Myrtle Blossoms." There was nothing unusual in the volume, the merit being of a negative order. Some of the poems were very good; one critic saying: "These poems are so harmonious, as almost to set themselves to music." "After the Battle!" which I give, is one of the best poems of the volume. Although the writer of these articles is one who advocates no South, North, East, or West, for literature, yet it is too true that sectionality is the

bane of literature in this country. It sounds farciful to say, "that Eastern booksellers will not order books by Southern authors, for no other reason than that the book hails from south of 'Mason and Dixon's line.'” Yet such is true. "The Northern people talk and write as if Southerners were Nazarenes, from whom no good comes," said a lady, who had resided in a Northern city for several years. I heard not long since of a Northern woman, residing near Chicago, of some literary ability, contemplating writing an article "concerning the absurdity of Southern literary pretensions." These remarks may seem "out of place;" yet I think that the facts given best explain the position of Miss Leonard, which I now give in her own words:

"In the beginning of the war, my father's family were for the Union." [During the war Dr. Leonard removed to Chicago, and died there in 1864. Miss Leonard was motherless, and as they had property in Chicago, her destiny seemed cast there.] "In Chicago, I had abundant opportunity to become acquainted with the Northern people. I came hither with a girlish devotion to glorious ideals of Northern men and women, such as I fancied must be the result of Northern advantages. I expected to find social culture combined with the highest intellectual attainment. I anticipated the generosity that belongs to greatness. With my heart loving the South, my mind expected to do all honor to Northern advantages and intellect. I was bitterly disappointed. The taunts and outrages of the North, and the sorrows of my beloved South, bring me a sobbing child to the old home, and henceforth I labor for her honor and glory."

Miss Leonard's mother died when she was a small child, and her father remaining unmarried, and very indulgent, Miss Agnes led a roving, gypsying sort of life, following her own inclinations, and studying persons rather than books.

Miss Leonard contributed to the Chicago "Sunday Times," in 1867, a series of articles, entitled "Men, Women, and Beasts," and also contributed regularly to the "Sunday Tribune" of said city, and is now writing for the Louisville "Sunday Courier." Carleton & Co., of New York, published in 1867 a volume from her pen, entitled "Vanquished," which will be followed by a sequel, under title of "Philip Arion's Wife."

Miss Leonard's personnel is thus sketched by the "first writer of our Southern country":

"I can bring her very distinctly before my 'mind's eye,' in her tall and slender grace. She is youthful in appearance and in reality, and possesses

a face almost as perfect as a Greek bas-relief, and full of power and passion, with capabilities both of sweetness and satire. Her conversational powers are brilliant, yet tinged with melancholy, which some might mistake for bitterness. Sensibility and pride are the two distinctive expressions of her features; and like many enthusiasts, she has found the world she lives in but 'Dead-Sea apples' to the taste. In some of her essays there is deeper pathos and keener wit than are to be met with in her pleasing novel, 'Vanquished.' The poem, 'Angel of Sleep,' is full of singular abandon and beauty."

From the numerous flattering notices of "Vanquished," I take pleasure in making extracts from the following candid review that appeared in the "Chicago Tribune":

666

'Vanquished' may be considered Miss Leonard's first sustained work, and her real début before the literary world at large. It is not a gracious task at any time to criticise the first effort of a débutante in any department of art, and it is especially ungracious in literature; but a very candid perusal of 'Vanquished' has convinced us that, while the début may not be a success of enthusiasm, it is a success far more pronounced and positive than that achieved by the majority of young writers of fiction, and that she has secured a position with her first book which she may make permanent for the future, by the exercise of the increased skill in construction, and the power of condensation which experience will give to her.

"The story of 'Vanquished,' concisely stated, is the struggle of life,—the conflict which is fought on each individual battle-ground between inclination and duty. The ground-work of the story has been skilfully laid. The characters are introduced in quick succession, and many of them are drawn with a faithfulness and distinctness of outline which stamps them at once as portraits. Her characters all bear the impress of probability, without a trace of the exaggerated, high tragic, and melo-dramatic tone which pertains to most of the heroes and heroines of latter-day fiction. Some of them, such as the cynical Rashton, Dr. Kent, the inquisitive Mr. Bagshaw, and his homely but delightfully domestic wife; Philip Arion, the minister; Bernice Kent, who is the real heroine of the story, and Olive, are complete and harmonious in their portraiture, and never lose their identity. There are others, such as Oswald Kent, Aurelia, his sister, and the Brainards, who are connected with every phase of the story, and yet are very imperfectly sketched. Still others, introduced as accessories, having no relation to the general movement of the story, such as the Murdlains, the Bonnivets, the Mortimer Browns, the Melbournes, and others, are very happy instances of character painting, with a very few touches of the brush. A few illustrations of this will explain what we mean. George Bonnivet was the kind of man that a certain class of women prey upon remorselessly, tormenting the poor fellow to death, and then bestowing any amount of posthumous praise upon the