cottage of boards on a hill in the midst of a few acres of pine-land near Augusta; and here, until his death, he toiled with his pen to support his family. His works include Poems (1855); Sonnets and other Poems (1857); Avolio, a Legend of the Island of Cos (1859); Legends and Lyrics (1872); The Mountain of the Lovers, and other Poems (1873); Life of Robert Y. Hayne (1878); Life of Hugh S. Legaré (1878); a complete edition of his Poems (1882). In 1872 he published the poems of his friend Henry Timrod, to which he prefixed a Memoir; and at his death he left enough manuscript to make two or three volumes more of his own works. Among his lectures, the most noteworthy is The Literature of Imagination. It ought to be said that the touching sonnet to Carolina was written during the period of reconstruction, when, as the author thought, the fame of the great statesmen and orators of his native State was "fast becoming a mere shadowy tradition." And of his Whittier it has been written, that "among all the attempts to describe the personal bearing of that unique and venerable figure in our literature, there has been none quite so good as this from the shy, sensitive, passionate South Carolinian." CAROLINA. That fair young land which gave me birth is dead! Lost as a fallen star that quivering dies Down the pale pathway of autumnal skies, A vague, faint radiance flickering where it fled; Wrecked, on the languid shore of Lethe lies, O mother! loved and loveliest! debonair WHITTIER. So, 'neath the Quaker-poet's tranquil roof, See his deep brows half puckered in a knot Or should he deem wrong threats, the public weal, Or by the hearth-stone when the day is done, Discerning which, by some mysterious law, While terrier Dick, denied all words to rail, And he who loves all lowliest lives to please, God's innocent pensioners in the woodlands dim, FAITH. Would ye be worthy of your sires who on King's Mountain side Welcomed dark Death for Freedom's sake as bride grooms clasp a bride? Then must your faith be winged above the world, the worm, the clod, To own the veiled infinitudes and plumbless depths of God! The roughest rider of my day shrank from the atheist's sneer, As if Iscariot's self were crouched and whispering at his ear; The stormiest souls that ever led our mountain forays wild Would ofttimes show the simple trust, the credence, of a child. True faith goes hand in hand with power-faith in a holier charm Than fires the subtlest mortal brain, the mightiest mortal arm; And though 'tis right in stress of fight "to keep one's powder dry," What strength to feel, beyond our steel, burns the Great Captain's eye! -From The Battle of King's Mountain, Harper's Magazine, 1880. ASPECTS OF THE PINES. Tall, sombre, grim, against the morning sky Tall, sombre, grim, they stand with dusky gleams A stillness strange, divine, ineffable, Broods round and o'er them in the wind's surcease, And on each tinted copse aad shimmering dell Rests the mute rapture of deep-hearted peace. -From the Atlantic Monthly, 1872. From garish light and life apart, Dreamlike, in curves of palest gold, Dreamlike, in fitful, murmurous sighs, Round which the vapors, still outspread, Till flushed by morning's primrose red. Dreamlike, each slow, soft pulsing surge Low whisperings through the dew-wet grass, With brightening morn the mockbird's lay Mid dusky reeds, which even the noon Ah! still a something strange and rare I feel-whatever shores and skies May charm henceforth my wondering eyes, PRE-EXISTENCE. While sauntering through the crowded street, Some half remembered face I meet. Albeit upon no mortal shore, That face, methinks, has smiled before. Lost in a gay and festal throng, Set to an air whose golden bars In sacred aisles I pause to share When the whole scene which greets mine eyes, In some strange mood I recognize, As one whose every mystic part |