THE NliGUO HARD. 43 



slate, and acrostics on many of the tip-top belles of Virginia, South Car- 

 olina and Georgia." 



^J'lius many a learned collegian, deep-versed in the erotics of all the 

 love-sick poets, from Anacreon of Greece to his worthy successor of 

 the Emerald Isle — that glorious child of love and god of song, Tom 

 Moore — has been well content to draw upon this rude bard for lines 

 of love and words of fire, with M'hich to woo and win his chosen fair. 

 A quarter of a dollar was the price at which they were set, but from 

 their liberality he often received more. He has been for several years a 

 contributor to the "Southern Literary Messenger;" and the fame of his 

 wonderful natural powers, already great, is more widely spreading. Be- 

 fore closing, we cannot forbear giving a few specimens of his poetical 

 powers : — 



EARLY AFFECTIOIV, 



"I loved thee from the earliest dawn, 



When first I saw thy beauty's ray ; 

 And will until life's eve comes on, 



And beauty's blossom fades away ; 

 And when all things go well with thcc. 

 With smiles or tears remember me. 



I'll love thee when thy morn is past, 



And wheedling gallantry is o'er. 

 When youth is lost in age's blast 



And beauty can ascend no more ; 

 And when life's journey ends with thee. 

 Oh then look back and think of me. 



I'll love thee with a smile or frown, 

 'Mid sorrow's gloom or pleasure's light. 



And when the chain of life runs down, 

 Pursue thy last eternal flight : 



When thou hast spread thy wing to flee. 



Still, still a moment wait for me." 



With such a meagre and insulhcient education, daily employed with 

 his degraded caste hi menial employment, we should not expect to find 

 hun a model of classic beauty, or refined purity ; nay, wc should be 

 prepared to see many gross philological blunders — mucli which the nice 

 precision of an Addison would have pruned away— many offences against 

 the rigid rules of the saintly Murray. We give two stanzas of his lines 

 on '"the death of a favorite chamber maid." 



O Death ! thy power I own, 



Whose mission 't was to rush 

 And snatch the rose so quickly blown 



Down from its native bush: 



