Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 2 August 1848. Various

passed, and all was dark, the lights of the pirate brig were some five miles to leeward. Her blood-red flag had been run up to the fore-peak, as if in mockery of the prey the pirates felt sure could not escape them – and the booming noise of a heavy gun had reached the ears of the fugitives, as if to signal their predestined doom. Yet the calm, round moon looked down upon the gloomy waters with the same serene countenance that had gazed into their bosom for thousands of years, and trod upward on her starry pathway with the same queenly pace; yet, perchance, in her own domains contention and strife, animosity and bloodshed were rife; perchance the sound of tumultuous war, even then, was echoing among her mountains, and staining her streams with gore.

[To be continued.

      THE SOUL'S DREAM

BY GEORGE H. BOKER

      Like an army with its banners, onward marched the mighty sun,

      To his home in triumph hastening, when the hard-fought field was won;

      While the thronging clouds hung proudly o'er the victor's bright array,

      Gold and red and purple pennons, welcoming the host of day.

      Gazing on the glowing pageant, slowly fading from the air,

      Closed my mind its heavy eyelids, nodding o'er the world of care;

      And the soaring thoughts came fluttering downward to their tranquil nest,

      Folded up their wearied pinions, sinking one by one to rest.

      Till a deep, o'ermastering slumber seemed to wrap my very soul,

      And a gracious dream from Heaven, treading lightly, to me stole:

      Downward from its plumes ethereal, on my thirsting bosom flowed

      Dews which to the land of spirits all their mystic virtue owed.

      And when touched that potent essence, Time divided as a cloud,

      From the Past, the Present, Future rolled aside oblivion's shroud;

      And Life's hills and vales far-stretching full before my vision lay,

      Seeming but an isle of shadow in Eternity's broad day.

      On the Past I bent my glances, saw the gentle, guileless child

      Face to face with God conversing, and the awful Presence smiled —

      Smiled a glory on the forehead of the simple-hearted one,

      And the radiance, back reflected, cast a splendor round the throne.

      Saw the boy, by Heaven instructed through earth's mute, symbolic forms,

      Drinking wisdom with his senses, which the higher nature warms;

      Saw that purer knowledge mingled with the worldling's base alloy,

      And the passions' foul impression stamped upon his face of joy.

      O, I cried to God in anguish, is this boasted wisdom vain,

      For which I, by night and sunshine, tax my overwearied brain;

      Till, alas! grown too familiar with the thoughts that knock at Heaven,

      I would further pierce the mystery than to mortal eye is given?

      Is the learning of our childhood, is the pure and easy lore

      Speaking in a heart unsullied, better than the vaunted store

      Heaped, like ice, to chill and harden every faculty save mind,

      By the hand of haughty Science, sometimes wandering, sometimes blind?

      But no answer reached my senses; for my feeble voice was lost,

      When the Future came in darkness, like a rushing arméd host;

      Shouting cries of fear and danger, shouting words of hope and cheer,

      Racking me with threat and promise, ever coming, never here.

      Then my spirit stretched its vision, prying in the doubtful gloom,

      Half a glimpse to me was given o'er Time's boundary-stone – the tomb.

      With a shriek, like that which rises from a sinking, night-wrecked bark,

      Burst my soul the bounds of slumber, and the world and I were dark!

      While the dull and leaden Present on my palsied spirit pressed,

      Till the soaring thoughts rose upward, bounding from their earthly rest;

      Shaking down the golden dew-drops from their pinions proud and strong,

      And the cares of life fell from me, fading in the realm of Song.

      THE MAID OF BOGOTA

A TALE FROM COLOMBIAN HISTORY

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS

      Whenever the several nations of the earth which have achieved their deliverance from misrule and tyranny shall point, as they each may, to the fair women who have taken active part in the cause of liberty, and by their smiles and services have contributed in no measured degree to the great objects of national defence and deliverance, it will be with a becoming and just pride only that the Colombians shall point to their virgin martyr, commonly known among them as La Pola, the Maid of Bogota. With the history of their struggle for freedom her story will always be intimately associated; her tragical fate, due solely to the cause of her country, being linked with all the touching interest of the most romantic adventure. Her spirit seemed to be woven of the finest materials. She was gentle, exquisitively sensitive, and capable of the most true and tender attachments. Her mind was one of rarest endowments, touched to the finest issues of eloquence, and gifted with all the powers of the improvisatrice, while her courage and patriotism seem to have been cast in those heroic moulds of antiquity from which came the Cornelias and Deborahs of famous memory. Well had it been for her country had the glorious model which she bestowed upon her people been held in becoming homage by the race with which her destiny was cast – a race masculine only in exterior, and wanting wholly in that necessary strength of soul which, rising to the due appreciation of the blessings of national freedom, is equally prepared to make, for its attainment, every necessary sacrifice of self; and yet our heroine was but a child in years – a lovely, tender, feeble creature, scarcely fifteen years of age. But the soul grows rapidly to maturity in some countries, and in the case of women, it is always great in its youth, if greatness is ever destined to be its possession.