poems. She has a work on "Woman: Her Education, Aims, Sphere, Influence, and Destiny," (which has been delivered as lectures to the pupils of the college;) "A Guide and Assistant to Composition;" and a poem, entitled "Alma Grey"-all of which we hope to see in print.
HUMAN SOVEREIGNTY; OR, EVERY MAN A KING.
To the young men of our beloved Southland, who, repining not at the past, or despondingly brooding over what might have been, have yet the courage to accept their situation as it is, and the energetic exercise of whose wisdom, goodness, and virtue is yet to constitute the true wealth and freedom of a fallen people, the following poem is most respectfully dedicated, with the assurance that gold, bank-stock, lands, cottonbales, and negroes make no man rich or great; but the real wealth of any country is to be estimated by the amount of the active intelligence and virtue of its sons and daughters. RESURGAMUS
Victoria sitteth on a throne, with thronging nobles round,
And with a rich and jewelled crown her queenly brow is bound,
While thousand hands, at her behest, perform her slightest will,
And only wait a wish to know, with pleasure to fulfil
Her kingdom is the sea-girt isles, and far-off India's shore,
And stretches from the northern snows to great Niagara's roar;
While ocean-gems are crouching low her lion arms to greet,
And strong Gibraltar humbly kneels a subject at her feet.
Queen of a mighty realm, she rules o'er lands so widely spread,
And fearful weight of royalty resteth upon her head;
Millions of beings yield to her their life-career to guide,
While Wisdom, with its hoary hairs, must her decrees abide.
But thou, young man, with sun-browned cheek, a tiller of the soil,
Which, with the fruits it yieldeth thee, rewardeth all thy toil-
The labor-gems that gird thy brow have value rich and great
As diadems of jewels rare that burden by their weight.
Thy God hath given to thee a realm, and made thee, too, a king;
And willing subjects unto thee their votive offerings bring;
While thou must reign a sovereign lord, with undisputed sway,
Or yield the master-spirit'a rule the subject to obey.
"My mind to me a kingdom is," wrote one who suffered long
Within the Bastile's gloomy walls, 'mid gratings high and strong;
• Madame Guyon, confined on account of her religion.
And, like a bird, she sat and sang to him who placed her there;
Although a bird shut from the fields of sunlight and of air.
Well was that inborn realm subdued, thus faithfully to bring
The fruits of joy and sweet content, and pleasant memories fling
Among the hopes that budded thick within that grated room,
Where yet the sunlight of the heart in gushing floods could come.
Youth, with the generous impulses that crowd thy opening way,
Thou'rt each a king- monarch supreme- an empire owns thy sway:
'Tis true thou wear'st no purple robe, no glittering, golden crown,
Nor bear'st a jewelled sceptre's wand t'enforce thy haughty frown:
Thy kingdom is no wide-spread land, girt by the heaving wave;
But of thyself thou'rt ruler all, from childhood to the grave;
And he who hath a high-born soul, a true and kindly heart,
Addeth to "human sovereignty" its most distinguished part.
No princely dome is thine to boast, no costly marble walls
Reared by the sweat of toiling men, who must obey thy calls;
No pictures of proud artists' skill, no tessellated floors
That echo to the courtly tread of those within thy doors.
Thy palace is the wide-spread earth, its dome the arching sky;
And far more bright than gorgeous lamps the light that meets thy eye
The glorious sun at morning's hour, the flashing stars at eve,
Among whose rays the moonbeams too their silver tissue weave.
The Architect who built for thee hath fashioned for thy view
Full many a scene of beauty rare, bright flowers of Eden hue,
The greenwood shade, the waterfall, the mountain tipped with mist,
Whose sunny heights and dusky grots the amber clouds have kissed.
What though earth trumpet not thy fame across her lakes and seas,
Nor silken banner waft it forth upon the floating breeze?
If in thy peaceful breast there lives the conscicusness of right,
Thou'rt happier than a CONQUEROR returning from the fight.
What though no herald's blazonry trace back thy ancient name,
And find unmixed with vulgar blood thy royal lineage came?
Man's acts proclaim nobility, and not the kingly crest;
For he's the noblest who performs life's trying duties best.
And should men scorn thy mean attire, and dare to call thee "slave,"
Hold up thy head, king of thyseif, and be thou truly brave;
For God hath given thee sovereignty of soul, and mind, and heart,
And absolute thy power must be till life itself depart.
Then arm that soul with heaven-born truth, with justice, and with love;
And fill thy mind with knowledge too, foul error to remove;
Stir well the ground of thy young heart, that it produce no weeds,
But precious fruits of charity, and treasures of good deeds.
Ay, let thy bosom wear the robe of high-born honesty,
And truth gird e'en thy secret acts with its pure panoply;
Then, knowledge-crowned, thy brow serene with holy light shall glow,
And rays of living radiance o'er a darkened world shall throw.
And thou 'lt so rule this precious realm bestowed, fair youth, on thee,
That when is asked thy last account thou 'lt give it joyfully;
Nor fear abash thy pallid cheek, nor tremble on thy tongue,
To meet the Universal King and mingle with his throng.
Prince of humanity! self's rightful, heaven-born lord!
Virtue and goodness bring their own exceeding great reward:
Be free from passion's rule, from ignorance and pride,
And there's no nobler work than man, the Godhead's self beside.
RS. POPE'S maiden name was Mary E. Foote. She is a native of Huntsville, Ala. She married, when young, Mr. Leroy Pope. Mr. and Mrs. Pope made their home in Memphis, where she has resided since. Her life has been chequered by misfortune and sorrow, which have only seemed to give occasion for the development of the lofty and noble qualities of her nature. Mrs. Pope is the mother of Lieutenant W. S. Pope, killed at Tishemingo Creek, and mentioned in the life of General Bedford Forrest.
Mrs. Pope has grappled with adversity with a bold, unquailing spirit, and ridden triumphant over the storms of life. She has charge of a flourishing school for young ladies in Memphis, which sufficiently attests the indomitable energy dwelling in her slender and fragile figure.
The sweet murmurings of her muse may be frequently heard floating on the breeze, in the Memphis journals.
Through sin's dark, loathsome, outward form, God's image, ever pure and warm,
Thou art a poet; sing.
When sorrow bows thy burdened head,
And lurid clouds thy path o'erspread,
If in thy grief, on radiant wing,
The muse doth woo thee to her spring,
Fear not to sip and sing.
When life blooms like a new-made bride,
With hope and love and grateful pride,
And earth to thy illumined eye
With Aiden seems in sheen to vie;
If joy is tuneful, sing.
When morning blushes o'er the earth
With rosy softness, bloom, and mirth,
And birdlings from each jewelled spray
Woo thee to hail the new-born day;
If music haunt thee, sing.
If, when thy glances seek the sky,
Where sunset hues its pavement dye,
Thy fettered spirit clank its chain,
Struggling to make its utterance plain;
Unbind the links and sing.
It may be that thy lyre's faint tone
No magic master-key may own;
Thy falt'ring steps may fail to reach
In fame's great temple-shrine a niche;
But yet fear not to sing.
As well the twitt'ring wren might fear
With his soft strain the day to cheer
Because the nightingale's rich note
More proudly sweet at eve doth float,
And thus refuse to sing,
As thou, because on stronger wing
Thy brothers scale fame's height and sing-
Their grand, immortal harps will wake
A thousand lesser shells to take
Part in creation's hymn.
The heaven-descended, god-like power
To mortals is a priceless dower.
Some hearts in silent grief may ache;
But some, if mute, e'en joy would break,
And, sad or glad, must sing.
But if to thee no radiant sheen
Light up the roughest human mien;
If life wear not a glorious light,
Beyond what beams on common sight,
Be still, nor dare to sing.
If human faith and human love
In thee no sacred worship move;
If in bright nature's open eye
No great, eternal beauty lie,
Be sure thou canst not sing.
If thy calm pulse and even blood
Course not at times a lava flood,
With suffocating rush of thought,
By noble deeds or evil brought,
Such cool blood cannot sing.
Touch not with hand profane the lyre,
Unbaptized with the sacred fire.
Study may give the tricks of art,
But cannot the bard's power impart
To other souls to sing.
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