soul has long since entered!

FOOTNOTE:

[30] As in the case of the gentleman for whom Senator Vance's native
county was named. He had over his front door the inscription:

"Buncombe Hall,
Welcome all!"

ALBERT PIKE.

~1809=1891.~

ALBERT PIKE was born in Boston, but after his twenty-second year made
his home in the South. He was a student at Harvard and taught for a
while; in 1831, he went to Arkansas, walking, it is said, five hundred
miles of the way, as his horse had run away in a storm.

He became an editor and then a lawyer, cultivating letters at the same
time, and wrote the "Hymns to the Gods." He served in the Mexican and
Civil Wars, with rank in the latter of Brigadier-General in the
Confederate army. He afterwards made his home in Washington City,
where he at first practised his profession, but later gave his
attention mostly to literature and Freemasonry.

WORKS.

Hymns to the Gods.
Prose Sketches and Poems.
Reports of Cases in the Supreme Court of Arkansas.
Works on Freemasonry.
Nugae, (including Hymns to the Gods).

The following poem is one of the best on that wonderful bird whose
song almost all Southern poets have celebrated. It has a classic ring
and reminds one of Keats' Odes on the Nightingale and on a Grecian
Urn.

TO THE MOCKING-BIRD.

Thou glorious mocker of the world! I hear
Thy many voices ringing through the glooms
Of these green solitudes; and all the clear,
Bright joyance of their song enthralls the ear,
And floods the heart. Over the sphered tombs
Of vanished nations rolls thy music-tide;
No light from History's starlit page illumes
The memory of these nations; they have died:
None care for them but thou; and thou mayst sing
O'er me, perhaps, as now thy clear notes ring
Over their bones by whom thou once wast deified.

Glad scorner of all cities! Thou dost leave
The world's mad turmoil and incessant din,
Where none in other's honesty believe,
Where the old sigh, the young turn gray and grieve,
Where misery gnaws the maiden's heart within:
Thou fleest far into the dark green woods,
Where, with thy flood of music, thou canst win
Their heart to harmony, and where intrudes
No discord on thy melodies. Oh, where,
Among the sweet musicians of the air,
Is one so dear as thou to these old solitudes?

Ha! what a burst wa