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THE COUNTRYMAN. BY J. A. TURNER. —“ brevity is the soue of wit — A YEAR. YOL. III. TURNWOLD, PTJTNAM COUNTY, GA., MONDAY, NOVEMBER 10, 1862. NO. 7. THE OLD PLANTATION : A POEM. The Wanderer take9 a view of his old paternal Cot tage—The Woodbine that grew by the Cottage— The Cotter’s Huriai-Ground—Invocation to the Vine—Reflections on Death—The Early Settler— Reflections on Freedom and Slavery—Picture of the Settler’s gottage—Scenes in the Settler’s Life— Other Settlers—Clearing the Forest and tilling the Land—View of the country aftec the Forest is subdued and the Land cultivated. In happier days, here from the cottage fire, The wreathing smoke sent up its airy spire. With upward instincts, clambering toward the sky, In rich luxuriance trained to mount on high, The fragrant woodbine round the chimney twined, And mossy stones in graceful folds enshrined. Nor even now the vine is wholly dead, Creeping slow-paced along the mossy shed, * Torn from the chimney by some blasting storm, Despoiled by winds of half its ancient form. The hand that trained it, moulders ’neath the sod, The heart that loved it gladdens by its God;. But grateful scions from the parent vine, The humble cotter’s peaceful grave enshrine, Transplanted by some loved and tender hand, Where tomb-stones chiseled hot by nature stand; Those granite fragments, mossy, gray, and rude, That mark the spot where angel pinions brood, Guarding the rest of humble sleepers where Too close obtrudes the sacrilegious share. Even now I hear the rustle of their plumes, Fanning the odor from these rustic blooms, Bending the shrubbery and the garden flowers, That yet are spared to decorate yon bowers ; That fringe the charnel where the waving corn Sheds pearly tears, embalmed by dewy morn, To think that man will thus the place invade, Where brother man’s departed life is laid. Oh ! thing of life, oh ! animated vine, Embowering still this consecrated shrine, Content to leave the spires that pierce the sky, And humbly o’er the cotter’s grave to lie, Dear emblem thou of friendship’s noblest state, Forsaking, place with lowly loved.to .wait, Stooping from height to guard the feeble breast, Quitting thy pride to make the humblest blest, Clasping thy tendrils o’er the lowliest grave, Mindful alike of master and of sjave, How pants my heart to rest its sorrow here, With closing autumn, and the opening year, With thee, fast friend, to linger near me still, When in the tomb my heart hath ceased to thrill. Rather by far my dust should slumber here, Than where the urns of sculptured art appear, Where marble piles their grandeur rear on high, And leave the heart in desolate pomp to lie; Than in the abbey, where, in regal state, The monarch lies in futile splendor great, Leaving a name for history’s page in vain To varnish o’er, and gloss his vicious reign. But useless thought! the stranger owns the soil, And here my heart may never rest its toil. Intruder now, while life prolongs its sway, Intruder more, when life has ebbed away, I may not rest where all these loved ones rest, Thou,friendly vine,may’st never clasp my breast. Oh ! could I leave one living friend to weep, When in the ground these weary members sleep, ’Twere dearer far than though my name were high, On fame’s proud shaft, that pierced the bend ing sky. But none I have ! No living being knows, Much less would aare for all the wanderer’s woes: Yet when I die, to friendly dust consigned This dust shall be, and the immortal mind Will spurn the worm, e'scape the dungeon sod, And trust its fate to mercy and to God. Here, ’neath these oaks,primeval sentries where The Indian slept, the wolf embowered his lair, O’ershadowing all, with arms of giant frame, The fearless settler, tyrant-hunted came, Ilis-lot amid entangled wilds to cast, Chilled by the rains, and tortured by the blast. Keen blew the winds when winter brought his snow, And summer’s flowers with autumn ceased to blow: But wind and tide were evils.light as air, Compared with those which hearts in fettorsbear. Theman by Heaven for freedom when designed, Enslaved no joy in thraldom’s path may find, Save when high hope commands him burst his Ghain, And give his heart to freedom’s joy again : Then high resolve may make his bosom blest, Though still with chains the prisoner be opprest. Yet stolid hearts, to every feeling dull, Supplying veins of sluggish languor full, That need must have a guardian’s fostering hand, To give them homes,and answer want’s demand- Designed by Heaven to wear a master’s chain, May wear it softly, and be rid of pain : Nay ’tis their bliss to have some power to lead, To guard them, give them raiment, and to feed. Not so with him who sought the western wild, Born to be free, by bondage made her child ; His birth-right freedom, his the freeman’s glow, A tyrant linked his heart to slavery’s wo. But scorning chains, he sought the western world, Tossed by the tide, and by the tempest hurled; Small evils these if freedom’s halo shed Its genial beams around his manly head : Let him he free, and thunders loud might roll, And drive his shattered bark from pole to pole. Such thoughts as these the exile’s breast inspired, While freedom all his glowing.passion fired: For freedom’s 'sake he crossed the envious brine, And to his goddess reared an humble shrine; His cot beside the sacred altar reared, And round his door the useless timber cleared; But felling trees, reserved the needed shade, The artist’s with the laborer’s skill displayed. Back go my thoughts to memories of the child, How ’mid his toil my weary father smiled; How sighed my mother, when his back was turned, As for her native land her bosom yearned ; Yet would she meet her husband with a smile, And veil her griefs with well-dissembling wile. Well I remember, round our forest home, The worm-fence yard I careless used to roam ; The roof of hoards, the wooden-hinged door, The smoky rafters, and the rugged floor ; The tall old clock which in the corner stood, The table made of rudely-shapen wood ; The trusty rifle.lianging on the rack, The hearth of stone, the broad, old sooty hack. Weill remember how the Indian’s yell, With terror fraught, came sweeping down the dell ; The manly grasp which clutched the gun and knife, Prenared to guard the helpless babe and wife. The wolf’s, wild cry do I remember well, The panther’s scream,in toned with notes of hell; The fox’s hark, the cougar’s maddening howl, The fiendish laugh of the demoniac owl ; The serpent’s rattle, and the fawn’s light bound, The watchful cur-dog, and the hunting hound. Well I remember many a brindled hide, And antlered trophy on the cottage side; The bear’s meat brought to grace the rustic board, The larder with the fattest venison stored. To share our toils did other settlers come, Exchanging fetters for a forest home ; Hard by our cot, the giant trees they cleared, And humble huts with busy labor reared. Each aided each, commingling needed toil, To fell the timljer, break the virgin soil, A fruitful store which paid their labors well, Clad all the hill, and lined the blooming dell, Since Heaven well pleased, with gifts propitious smiled, And crowned an Eden, where there frowned a wild. The wild subdued, the Indian forced away, The savage beast no more pursued his prey, And where the cougar’s maddening howl was heard, There came the notes of the wild warbling bird, A living joy for man’s companion fit, Around his door in sunny hours to flit, Or chee.r his toil beneath the frowning cloud, Herald of hope, when winter spreads his shroud. Where tangled vines once walled the settlers round, The snowy cotton all the valley crowned, And golden wheat, and the luxuriant corn, And queenly flowers that triumphed o’er the thorn. Whereonce the Indian pierced his bleeding prey, With plumed shaft, the plough assumed the sway, And flowing wealth in fattening coffers poured Built costlier homes, and barns with plenty stored.