The wall of living hearts, Of noble, loving hearts, At whose name the tear-drop starts: They have breathed sweet Freedom's air They are strong to will and dare— They are strong to do and bear! The cannon-thunders roar, The myriads on her pour: Through the smoke and din of war, She arises still serene; And the sun, with golden beam, Pours molten glory o'er Scarred front and trampled shore On the bloody, turbid tide, Where blackened corpses ride, She was shielded from their ire For a nation shall expire, While ascendeth higher, higher, The anthem that will be Of a new-born nation free! When to the Past's deep urn, Ye for her treasures turn, How Vicksburg rose in light, Let her name be wreathed with flowers, Be struck from golden lyre, LINES SUGGESTED BY A CAPE JASMINE. A soft perfume hangs heavy on the air; Its sweet nepenthe calms the soul's fierce pain, And from life's fever-thirst and fret doth bear, And soothes me as my mother's breast again. Away in distance far dies war's fierce tone, While open wide the forest's winding ways, Within whose cool, green depths are heard alone The murmuring leaves and golden-winged fays: Thy gleaming leaves recall the brook's bright sheen, Still heavier grows the air with perfume sweet, And seems to commune with immortal bands. Bright forms of dream-like beauty round me glide; Now burning thoughts, uprising, seem to swell And leave their weird-like beauty all untold. Why sweep these visions bright across my soul, Thy calm white petals to my gaze unfold, And bid my heart to learn in silence meek They say, "The beautiful sweet converse hold, To rouse the soul the beautiful to seek." They bid me clothe my soul in spotless white, And, gazing on thy glossy, deep dark green, And waters still, reflecting heaven's sheen, And white-robed throng that on its shore abides. The crimson passion-flower* my life has wound, My Father, let my dying brow be crowned With Hope's bright buds, and Faith's large lilies white. RESIGNATION. Be patient, O my soul! yield not a sound *Emblem of suffering. Though as the Son of Morning Satan lures, Or with temptations fierce thy strength assays,— In radiant beauty breaks o'er darkest night. Of life upspringing from the grave's cold urn. Be patient, Soul! for Faith's full-moon will rise, And from dark mines is dug the glorious gem; And anvil-beating stroke spring Love and Might: Thou yet serenest peace and joy wilt know, The palm victorious wave 'mid hosts of light. MRS. GERTRUDE A. CANFIELD. RS. GERTRUDE AUGUSTA CANFIELD is a native of Vicksburg, Miss. She was born in 1836, and on the second marriage of her mother, removed with her to the Parish of Rapides, La., where she has since resided. In 1859 she married, and her husband, the gallant Major Canfield, was killed in leading a desperate charge at the battle of Mansfield, April 8th, 1864. No man in Rapides was more universally liked and respected than Major Canfield, and the tribute of honor to his memory was general and spontaneous throughout the parish where he had resided and practised his profession-the law. Few among our war-stricken people have suffered more deeply than Mrs. Canfield. The loss of husband and children, the utter destruction of all her property, the necessity of providing for the wants of a helpless family, would have utterly overwhelmed a woman of less energy than herself. To this last circumstance (the struggle for support) is owing, in a great measure, the shortness and infrequency of her published writings. The few which have appeared in the "Louisiana Democrat" and New Orleans "Crescent" are marked by a sentiment and sensibility of a true poetic order. They convey the idea of culture, and a fancy which only scatters these slight lyrics from an abundance which will yet mature a work of more depth and pretension. But it is from Mrs. Canfield's unpublished writings that her friends draw the clearest prestige of her future literary success. A novel yet in manuscript (the publication having been delayed for a time) is marked by a force, a pathos, and a purity which must give her a high place among Southern writers. It is a tale which none but a woman could have written, from the insight it gives into a woman's heart and hidden springs of action; but it is also filled with characters and details masculine in their grasp of thought and treatment. When "My Cousin Anne" is published, we feel confident that the author will receive her reward, in part at least. We add purity as the crowning grace, for among the sensational and decollété writings of the present day, her mode of creation comes to us as a new revelation. |