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TH E COUNTRYMAN. 37 old country, and I retain them to show with tvhat regret the South saw the North de stroy * the Uniou.’ My poem was commenced in 185S, I be lieve, and completed about one year after wards, when I wrote and dated the preface as above. In the fall or winter of 1S59, I offered it to the Haipers for publication, which they declined, probably because it is so strongly proslavery. 1 publish the production now, as I offeied it to them in 1859. The poem is too long to publish it all in one number of The Countryman. I shall therefore divide and publish it under differ ent sub-headings, but all under the general head of The O'd Plantation, begging my readers to remember that the instalments published are only parts of one continuous uroduction. The poem containsabout 1400 lines, and will be published entire, at a fu ture day.—I would not seek to disarm criti cism : but let my readers remember all the while that my first and foremost motive is to do honor to my native land, her homes, and her institutions. The Author. October 27th, 1862. THU OLD PLANTATION : A POEM. BY Tim WANDERER. After long, long yeara ot absence, the poet, an old, grey-headed, tottering man, returns to the spot that was his boyhood’s home, and finds it in ruins, and the property of another—H.s invocation to his Old Plantation Home. Dear sacred spot, secluded vale of shade, How oft hath fancj r , lingering here, delayed To trace the scenes of merry childhood o’er, By memory’s magic roused to life once more. Here, weary wanderer, worn and wasted turned, Fgreet the hour for which my heart hath yearned, Where’er my steps by fortune have been cast, Blest scenes, my first affection and my last. The lone wildbird, impelled by autumn’s wind, His first-loved forest leaving, speeds to find More genial groves to spend a weary hour, But, pining, longs to see his native bower, And flies when winter’s stormy wind is past With hope to find his early home at last. But in mid air with panting, weary breast, Seeking in vain the dear paternal neat, With drooping plumes he sees his downy home Felled to the earth, and turns once more to roam; Yet sadly lingers near the fallen spray, Whence rosy morn first caught his earliest lay, Delaying yet, with fond regret, to fly, And still delaying near his native sky. So turning from my wanderings, lovely spot, I seek for childhood’s home but find it not, Save here and there some remnant trace forlorn, As parting sun-set leaves the tinge of morn. Yet all these traces, still to memory dear, Possess their charms the lonely breast to cheer, As sad memorials of my childhood’s bloom, Like pulseless marble o’er the cherished tomb. And so amid these ruins will I roam To read the scanty epitaphs of home, And ere I turn this lorely vale to leave, Grant me, oh! Heaven, one moment’s kind re prieve From all my wo, awhile to loiter here, The ’rapturing scenes of early transports near ; To wander mid the haunts of bounding youth, The bowers of ease, the seats of love and troth; Here to delay, and fondly still delay— One last, long, lingering look, and then away. Firmness of Purpose. Firmness of purpose, combined with en ergy, is the most certain source of success in every undertaking. It is the surest means of obtaining honor and distinction that we have in this existence. Notwith standing this, we find many individuals who have not adopted any intellectual or physi cal pursuit, but who are content to remain idlers physically and intellectually, suffer ing themselves to be turned aside by every defeat of expectation, or passing pleasure. And it is generally the case, that those per sons who are not as successful as their neighbors, invariably attribute their neigh bors’ prosperity to some singular trait of character, or superior intellect, not found in the generality of men. I grant that Uiere is a difference in the minds of men : but the cause of success in successful men is their indomitable determination—not their fickleness and idleness. How often have we seen those who have been reared in the lap of luxury, blessed with the ad vantages of a collegiate course of studies, go forth as adventurers into a fascinating world without forming a fixedness of design and pursuit that would have enabled them to pluck from the loftiest cliff of cultivated genius the death less laurel, and end their ex istence in idleness and disgrace. While, on the contrary, how many who have started out upon the voyage of life without an edu cation, no alma-mater, nothing save their industry and perseverence, have attained to such eminence of superiority as to be come honored as statesmen and patriots. How many could be cited to show that with frugality, industry, and perseverence, a man may demand success as of right. Truly they are many, and it would be use less to mention what, by observing closely, we see in everyday life. To be moving—to be ever working—is as necessary for man as for the earth on which be lives. “ Idleness is the mother of crime,” and as motion is necessary to the purity of the waters, so is industry just as necessary to the moral and physical pu- I rity cf mankind. There Is nothing so con. | temptible- as an idler, intellectually or physically. The poor printer, who has toiled at his case through the long dreary night, till the grey light of morning peeps through the windows of his office, feels a sweeter pleasure than the indolent million aire can purchase. It is not enough, though, to be industrious with our hands : but we must be also mentally industrious— unceasingly energetical—it we would avoid the pernicious effects of idleness. Many a man, although moderately industrious phys ically, has fallen by suffering his intellect to run into the wild seed of revery. Then spurn idleness as a crime ! Form for your selves a fixedness of purpose and an indom itable perseverence. Cut the silken cord of the blighting guilt of idleness, and spring into the arena of life with every nerve strung to action, and you will find that there is nothing which your determination cannot conquer.— Van Dorn, Ga. Manners. “ I make it a point of morality never to find fault with another or. account of his manners. They may be awl;ward, or graceful, blunt or polite, polished or rustic : 1 care not what they are, if the man means well, and acts from honest intentions with out eccentricity or affectation. All men have not had the advantages of ‘ good socie ty,’ as it is called, to school themselves in all its fantastic rules and ceremonies; and it there is any standard of manners, itis one founded in reason and good sense, and not upon these artificial regulations. Manners, like conversation, should he extemporane ous, not studied. I always suspect a man who meets me with the same perpetual smile on his face—the same congeeing of the body and the same premeditated shake of the hand. Give me the hearty—it may be rough—grip of the hand—the careless nod of recognition, and when occasion re quires,the homely bat welcome salutation— ‘How are you my old friend?’” Picture of Life. “ In youth we seem to be climbing a hill on whose top eternal sunshine appears to rest. How eagerly we pant to attain its summit ! But when we have gained it,how different is the prospect on the other side! We sigh as we contemplate the dreary waste before us, and. look back with a wishful eye upon the flowery path we have passed, hut may never more retrace. Life is like a portentous cloud fraught with thun der-, storm, aud rain: but religion, like those streaming rays of sunshine, "will clothe it with light as with a garment, and fiinga its shadowy skitts wtth gold,”