We looked on our squadrons bowed down 'neath despair,
And thought on the dead clothed in glory;

Gazed, through blinding tears, on our country's black bier,
And longed to lie down with the gory!

We thought on our glory-our loved ones afar

The long years of toils and of dangers;

Then trembling, clasped hands, we worn brothers in war,
And proudly we parted 'mid strangers!

THE SENTINEL OF POMPEII.

Dr. Guthrie tells us a touching story of the fidelity of a Roman soldier at the destruction of Pompeii, who, although thousands fled from the city, remained at his post, because dishonorable to abandon it without being relieved, and died a death of useless, but of heroic devotion. He says: "After seventeen centuries they found his skeleton standing erect in a marble niche, clad in its rusty armor, the helmet on its empty skull, and its bony fingers still closed upon its spear."

Thick darkness had lowered, Vesuvius had sounded,

The flame of his wrath arose high in the sky;
Dense volumes of thick smoke the mountain surrounded,
And lay like a pall over doomed Pompeii.

Far, far in the distance the peal of his thunder
Vibrated, and shook the firm earth with its sound;
While, to his hot centre the mount rent asunder,
Red rivers of lava in fierceness poured down.

And thousands were gazing in fear and in horror,
And thousands, inured to it, dreamed not of doom;
But soon e'en the fearless beheld with deep sorrow
That ashes the city — themselves, would entomb.

Like snow-flakes, those ashes of dire desolation
Came thick, fast, and stifling, with burning-hot stones:
While momently grander the fierce conflagration

Loomed up in the distance, with death in its tones.

And near to the gate that looked out on the mountain,
A sentinel stood with his spear, keeping guard;

He saw the hot lava boil up like a fountain,

And heavily roll on the city toward.

He thought of his dear wife alone in her anguish,
The helpless ones weeping beside her in fear;
"Yet not e'en for sweet love must duty e'er languish,"
He murmured, and clasped again tightly his spear.

The hours passed slowly- none came to relieve him;
He called to his leader: "How long must I stay?”
Yet not for his life would that soldier deceive him,
But stood to his post through that terrible day.

He saw the dark ashes entombing the city;

He saw them rise up inch by inch to his chin;
He looked on the burning flood, and in deep pity
He uttered one prayer for his home, and was dead.

The city was covered, the lava flowed over,

And beauty and manliness, childhood and age,
And rich things and beauteous now to discover,
Were buried below by Vesuvius' rage.

Years, long years have passed, yet that sen't'nel is standing,
All helmeted, now disinterred, near his post;

And pilgrims, aweary at Pompeii landing,

Look on him, the strangest of all her strange host!

KATE A. DU BOSE.

Mof. hier. in

RS. DU BOSE is the eldest daughter of Rev. William Richards,

of Beaufort District, S. C. She was born in a village in Oxfordshire, England, in 1828. Shortly after her birth, the family came to the United States, and settled in Georgia, but removed in a few years to their present home in Carolina.

In 1848, she was married to Charles W. Du Bose, Esq., an accomplished gentleman, and lawyer of talent and ability, of Sparta, Georgia, where they still reside.

Mrs. Du Bose was educated in Northern cities, but for some years was a teacher in Georgia, her adopted home.

At an early age, she gave indications of a love of letters, and had she chosen to "break the lance" with professional contestants for literary honors, she must have won distinction and an enviable fame. But as a bird sings because it must find vent for its rapture, or as the heart will overflow when too full for concealment, thus with her writ

ings. Her productions have been given to the public from time to time, through journals and magazines, generally under the nom de plume of "Leila Cameron." Some of her best poems appeared in the "Southern Literary Gazette," published in Charleston, and edited by her brother, Rev. William C. Richards, now a resident of Providence, R. I. The "Orion Magazine," of Georgia, was also favored with contributions from her pen, and in its columns appeared the prize poem, entitled "Wachulla," the name of a famous and wonderful fountain near Tallahassee, Florida. This poem was deservedly popular, and if the spirit of the fountain had chosen a nymph from its own charmed circle to sing the praises of "beautiful Wachulla" and its surroundings, the lay could not have gushed up from a heart more alive to its beauties and attractions than that of its talented author.

In 1858, Mrs. Du Bose's first volume was published by Sheldon & Co., New York. This is a prose story for the young, entitled, "The Pastor's Household "a story of continuous interest, displaying narrative and dramatic power. The portraiture of "Lame Jimmy," one of the prominent characters-"a meek, silent boy," with pale face, and a look of patient suffering upon his young features-is admirably drawn; and as we see him, as he bends over his desk at school, with his large eyes full of the light of intellect, poring over his books, we triumph in the truth that God sometimes gives the poor boy, in his threadbare coat, the princely endowments of mind which may win him distinction among the "world's proud honors," and crown him a king among men.

As a member of a large family, all remarkable for intellectual acquirements, Mrs. Du Bose has been much favored in procuring an early and thorough cultivation. One of her brothers, Rev. William C. Richards, is not only widely known as a popular editor and writer, but is also the author of the "Shakspeare Calendar." Another brother, T. Addison Richards, of New York, the poet and artist, is the principal of the "School of Design for Women," established within the walls of Cooper Institute, New York.

In her elegant home, where unpretending piety and domestic love are combined with refined and cultivated tastes, seen in all the surroundings, and where the patter of children's feet is heard, and their happy laugh echoes through its walls, Mrs. Du Bose forms the centre of attraction to a circle of friends, as well as that of home, and wears with equally charming grace the triple name of wife, mother, and author.

1867.

L

66

EOLA, a well-known nom de plume, falls on the ear softly, musically, as if the very personification of that ideality which extracts inspiration from the whispering wind, the song of birds, the blush of flowers, the lightning's flash, and the thunder's roar."

Miss Kendall is a graduate of the Wesleyan Female College, of Macon. In the home of her childhood, a charming country-seat in Upson County, Ga., there are so many lovely spots in her native county, so many "glen echoes" where one might imagine her a nymph "calling to sister spirits of the greenwood," we do not wonder that the gift of poesy is hers.

Her ancestors were from North Carolina, and there is probably no family whose authentic history can be more closely traced through every period of the annals of that State. Her great-great-grandfather, who signed his name Joseph Lane, Jr., as far back as 1727, died at his residence on the Roanoke, in 1776. His youngest son, Jesse Lane, emigrated to Wilkes, near Oglethorpe County, Ga., and his descendants are dispersed through all the Western and Southern States; Gen. Joseph Lane, a candidate for the Vice-Presidency of the United States in 1860, and ex-Governor Swain, of Chapel Hill, North Carolina, being among the number. One of his daughters married John Hart, son of Nancy Hart, the famous heroine of the Broad River Settlement, and one of his grand-daughters was wife of Judge Colquitt, Senator from Georgia in 1847. Thus brought into close relationship with many of the highest families of the South, the subject of this sketch inherited the spirit of patriotism that prompted them to make any sacrifice, however great, for the welfare of their country. We do not know that we can introduce her in a more acceptable manner than by inserting here the following extract of a letter written by her without any thought of its publication, (1862.) Speaking of herself, she says:

"I have always been a child of nature and lover of poetry ever since I can remember, though it is pleasure enough for me to lurk among flowers, to listen to their heart-voices, and remain silent while drinking with intoxicating delight the sweets of far more gifted worshippers. Occasionally I cannot resist an inclination to snatch my own little harp from its favorite bed of violets; but its rustic strains are simple, and not worthy of being placed among the productions of those whose gifted pens have gained for them a

reputation more enduring than gold. My first poem was written at eight years of age, a grand attempt, which mamma carefully preserved. At dreaming fourteen, I went to Montpelier Institute, once under the supervision of Bishop Elliott, and its fairy groves, sparkling streams, and moonlit palaces' grew more dear when I fancied them the abode of viewless beings who told me of all things holy and beautiful. My composition-book was filled with wild, weird imagery, and the geometrical figures on my slate frequently alternated with impromptu verses, which are still kept as souvenirs of that dear old place. Two years in Macon College (where prosaical studies and life's sterner realities crossed my path) almost obliterated the silly dream of my childhood; a dream of fame, which now has utterly departed, for I have long since ceased to pursue a shadow so far beyond my reach. I write for those who love me- that is all; but if these wild flowers, gathered among the hills and streams of my native land - these untutored voices that speak to me from each nestling leaf, are able to dispel one single cloud among the many that overshadow our country, I have no right to withhold them.

"There is no lack of talent in our bright Southland; but, under the sunlight of prosperity, it has never yet been brought out in all its strength."

Of these "wild flowers and these untutored voices" we shall have but little to say, preferring to let them speak for themselves. She writes prose and poetry with equal facility, and her letters are models. of literary composition; for here she expresses herself with that gentle warmth and modest freedom that characterizes her conversation. As Mrs. Le Vert somewhere expresses it: "She seems to dip her pen in her own soul and write of its emotions." In company she is plain and unassuming, being wholly free from pedantry and pretension; and yet she possesses great enthusiasm of character the enthusiasm described by Madame De Staël, as "God within us, the love of the good, the holy, and the beautiful."

"Leola" was quite a student, and accomplished much, though her advancement would probably have been greater had she possessed such a literary guide and friend as G. D. Prentice was to Amelia Welby. But, as has been said of another, when we consider the great disadvantages she must have labored under on an isolated plantation, far from public libraries, and far from social groups of literary laborers and artists, it seems to us that her writings reveal the aspirations of a richly endowed genius and the marks of a good culture.

"Leola" is also exceedingly domestic, being, as she says, gifted with "a taste for the substantial as well as the poetry of life;" a proof that poetry and the larder are not always separate companions, but may