5
The South is rich in literary talent and genius, which are destined to throw lustre round her history, but, without meaning any individual distinction, we may well say there is none whose fame she has more reason to cherish with pride and affection than that of the young poet to whom we offered, in the foregoing remarks, a hasty and imperfect tribute. As modest a man as he is accomplished as a writer, distinguished not less for exemplary life and social merits than for natural gifts and cultivation of mind, he is not a person likely to be spoiled by either popular admiration or critical praise, though, unhappily such organizations are but too often suppressed by neglect.
As the song of “There’s Life in the Old Land Yet” is so much sought alter on the frontier, we presume its republication would not be unacceptable in this city.
THERE’S LIFE IN THE OLD LAND YET.
By blue Patapsco’s billowy dash
The Tyrant’s war shout comes,
Along with the cymbal’s fitful clash
And the growl of his sullen drums;
We hear it—we heed it, with vengeful thrills,
And we shall not forgive or forget—
There’s faith in the streams, there’s hope in the hills,
There's Life in the Old Land yet!
Minions! we sleep, but we are not dead,
We are crushed—we are scourged—we are scarred—
We crouch—’tis to welcome the triumph-tread
Of the peerless Beauregard.
