the opportunity of venting itself on the true malefactors, breaks forth on the first object (often the most innocent and best loved) that finds itself in your path. To-night it is possibly “Childe Harold," which happens to be on the window-border, and which you send whirling to the other end of the room. Or you go and waken your maid, who, ignorant of the miseries and delights of the "poetical temperament," is sleeping tranquilly, to ask her for something you could very well find yourself, or to repeat some trivial order for to-morrow.


Whenever I happen to find myself in similar circumstances, I am really most unhappy. And now, in choosing my own room, I sacrifice every other comfort to that of having no window with a vis-à-vis.


AS born at Cambridge, S. C.,

February 22, 1832. She is younger sister of Louise Manhiem. During her infancy, her parents removed to Augusta, Ga., where they remained until she reached her eleventh year, when her father, dissatisfied with his vocation, and craving that sphere of life which his poetic imagination pictured in the wilds of Florida, emigrated to that lovely land. The versatile beauty, sombre gloom, and grandeur of its scenery, awoke the talent of his second daughter, and threw into her after-life an impassioned love of solitude and nature.


Mrs. Jacobus was educated by her eldest brother, Judge Heydenfeldt, and graduated at the principal seminary in Montgomery, Ala., with credit.

She married, in 1852, J. Julien Jacobus, a good and talented man, who, contrary to the general rule, was proud of his young wife's literary ability, and who now and then took pleasure in inditing poems complimentary to her genius. The reverent affection with which he regarded her to the end of his short life is the noblest panegyric we can offer her in the character of wife and mother—the hearth of home being the truest means by which to test the higher attributes of a good and gifted woman. In her home circle, her virtues shine pre-eminent, and sanctify the genius which they adorn. Death, however, soon entered this happy home, and gathered two lovely children to his breast, casting a deep gloom over the young mother's life, which a few years later was deepened by the death of her husband, who fell while defending his home and his country on the bloody plain of Shiloh. Death claimed few nobler victims than this young and talented man, who had already given bright promise of future pre-eminence in his profession as a member of the Georgia bar.

The deep devotion which Mrs. Jacobus pays to the education of her three promising children elicits our especial admiration. She is a woman of medium height, is slight and well formed, has regular features; she is habitually pale, and her face wears a thoughtful expression when in repose; her manner is quiet and retiring, and there is an atmosphere of marked refinement pervading her every movement.

Mrs. Jacobus is a Jewess by birth, (as are all the five sisters,) and, with that native pride so inherent in the Hebrew people, she brings up her children in accordance with the Jewish faith. (Her father was a Presbyterian.)

Mrs. Jacobus is still young, and though her life has been early clouded with sorrow, we hope she will yet emerge from her voluntary seclusion, and we confidently expect much that is good, true, and beautiful from her pen.

Her home is in Augusta, and she promises a book to the world at a not distant day.


Bend low, let the blood on your cheek flush high,
As the belle and the beauty of earth sweeps by;
Take off your hat, and with gallant mien
Salute her there, 'midst the sad refrain.
Brightly she glides thro' the motley throng,
Gayly she smiles as she floats along;
Join the proud pageant with courtly bend,
Welcome her there as the soldier's friend.



Matchless in beauty, not brighter the skies
Than the gold of her hair, the blue of her eyes;
Not richer the damask that crimsons the rose
Than her cheek, as it flushes and smiles in repose..
Not whiter the lily, that fairy-like rides

In her emerald boat on the breast of the tides,
Than her brow, or more graceful the willow's bow wave
Than her form, as it glides o'er our brave soldier's grave.


Softly she treads thro' the aisles of the dead,
Graceful she bends o'er the sleeper's brave head,
Gently she nestles a floweret there,

And flings from her lashes her tribute. a tear.
Go, follow her; she is all beautiful, bright

As the starry-eyed flowers, all radiant and light
As her queen-sister Morn; both as bright, ay, as cold
As the soldier's clay corpse that lies under the mould.


Go, follow her; glance not behind at the form
Clad in black — bending sadly, alone, and forlorn
O'er the mound of her dead. Ah! she cannot forget:

The eyes of the sleeper seem watching her yet;
As she kneels, all oblivious of beauty and pride,.
A brave manly form fondly stands by her side,

And dreaming she smiles till the grass as it sighs
Parts over the spot where her brave soldier lies.

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Ah! it all rushes back, she remembers it now,
And presses in anguish her pained, burning brow,
And stifles the sob that is bursting to break
The bonds of her heart. O God! could it take
Her on high; could her life with her prayer
Rise up from his grave-up, upward in air,
All perfect and pure unto heaven? No no!
She must live on, and learn how to struggle with woe.


Yet 't was sweet once to hear, in her desolate grief,
The world call him "gallant," "brave," "fearless" - al
Is such praise. When the gallant young hero is slain,
The world stands aghast; but time in his train
Grasps up the reft cord where he left it, and on,
On it flies thro' the woof, and midnight and morn
Break alike on the world: her weary young heart
Has the honor to break. She has played well her part.

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And now as the "floral day" * dawns on the world,
She has come, like the rest, on his grave to unfurl
Her banner of blooms, fit emblems to wave
O'er that sanctified spot a Confederate's grave.
As she bends, in her coarse sable dress, o'er his mound,
A fairy, light step treads on the loose ground,
And glancing unbidden, beholds at her side

The beautiful belle once her maid when a bride.

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Oh! can it be? can such a dreary change fall

On a home once so bright? now draped in the pall
Of death and starvation. She glances again,

And there in the gay and glittering train

* 26th April.

Are her friends-friends? the cold scorn of her eye
Breaks like the flash o'er a storm-riven sky,
And her ashen lips cry, as she kneels o'er his sod,
"Where is earth's justice? Oh! is there a God?"


Ay, glance not behind at the pallid young face,
And yearning eyes raised to pierce the blue space
That curtains her God: her home, and his life
Tho' but atoms borne on in the mass and the strife-
Were bartered to make you a freeman; and now
Pass her by-there is gloom on her young bride-like brow.
Let her weep, let her starve, let her weary young life
Live out the decree of a patriot's wife.


Pass her by-tarry not to soothe the mad pain

That throbs at her heart, and burns in her brain.

Seek not to lift the dark pall of her woes;

How she toils, how she starves, how the day comes and goes.

What has she now to do with the world -

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A serf to the haughty, a slave to the churl?

Pass her by-shun the bride of the soldier, but save

All your smiles, all your honors to brighten his grave.


Oh! flowers, bright blooms, lift your beautiful heads,
And speak to the living in tones of the dead;
Tell them kind acts to their desolate love

Are graven on hearts that are watching above;
That a word to the weary, a mite to the poor,

May scatter the clouds, chase the "wolf from their door;"

That but for his country his ragged child now
Might smile in her beauty as radiant as thou.


But, alas! to the winds, as the favored of earth,

Tell the story of woe; what have they with the dearth

Of desolate homes? Ah! mourners, not here

Is the soldier's reward; hope, patience, and prayer
Are your respite from pain, till God in his love
Shall call you to join your brave martyrs above.
Until then, oh! remember the pride that yet waves
Its flower-starred flags o'er CONFEDERATE GRAVES.

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