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THE COURANT
A Southern Literary Journal.
HOWARD H. CALDWELL, EDITOR.] "Sic vos non vobis." [WM. W. WALKER, JR., & Co., PROPRIETORS.
VOLUME I. COLUMBIA, S. C., THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 3, 1859. NUMBER 27

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GEMS FROM THE DEAD.
—
BY LIZZIE CLARENDON.
—

The gifted poetess thus introduced the poem, when she published
it many years ago:
"MESSRS. EDITORS:—The following lines were written after
having heard a respected and pious minister of the gospel
relate, in his style of touching and simple eloquence, a sweet
'vision of the night ' which had seemed to him like a glimpse
of the 'better land.' I have attempted to clothe it in a poetical
dress, without altering the sense or substance at all. I
hope he will pardon the liberty I have taken, and regard it
only as a token of the esteem of his `absent friends.` "

THE MINISTER'S DREAM.

"I had a dream
Which was not all a dream." This mortal life—
This restless, wearied, care-worn, mortal life—
Was done; and on a music-strain, and wings
Of beauteous angels, I was borne aloft,
'Till mighty earth, with all her rolling floods—
And hoary hills and boundless emerald plains
Had dwindled to a point, and stars and suns
Looked dim in distance. Then the golden walls,
Studded with richest gems, rose on my sight,
The "holy city," with its gates of pearl,
Its streets of glassy gold—its blazing light;
And soon the crystal river—and the trees
Whose flowers are fadeless, and whose leaves can heal
The nations of the earth, and cleanse from sin.
Then harps were struck, and golden lyres swept,
And music filled the courts of heaven, breathed
From angel lips; and lo! the song they sung
Was this:—" Praise to the Lord! the lost is found!
The wanderer is at home! the exile rests!"
Wondering I stood:-"At home! in heaven! I,
The child of earth, the sin-stained soul whose barque,
Leaky and frail, was just now wrecked and sunk
Beneath the waves of death! at home! in heaven ! "
I prostrate fell, and with my trembling hands
Concealed my mortal features from their gaze.
"Shew him, his name! `` Thus spake a music voice
From out the rainbow throne: and lo! to me
A six-winged seraph came, bearing a book
Whose golden leaves were beauteous to behold;
And there, inscribed in deathless characters
It stood—the name this "outward man" had borne.
"Go, crown him now!" again the Saviour spake;
And quick an angel-band with willing hands
Placed on my brow—that thrilled with rapturous joy—
A crown of gold be-gemmed with stars of light.
I bowed my head, and once again the song
Swelled through the heavenly courts: " The lost is found!
The wanderer is at home ! the exile rests! "
It ceased, and on my ear the rustling noise
Of flying wings, struck with a pleasing sound.
I felt them fanning gently as they came,
I heard them folding softly on the breast,
And then—oh joy!—my forehead, starred with light,
Was gently pressed, and silvery tones of love,
Whispered, in accents sweeter than those harps:—
"My son, my son! how have I longed for this!
How watched, how waited for thee! I, my son,
Thy mother once,-thy guardian spirit then,
Now thy companion angel, and thy friend!
Henceforth thy home shall be in this bright world,
Henceforth thou shalt be free from sin and pain,
We part no more, my son."

Oh, mother blessed !
Whose gentle hand through all the mazy paths
Of erring youth and childhood led me on;—
Whose voice breathed like heaven's music to my heart
When pleasure's Syren song had lured me on
Near to the giddy height from whence the fall
Was everlasting misery and death ;—
The hope that I will meet thee cheers my soul,
Reflects its bow of promise through my tears,
And lights my pathway with its kindling glow.
Watch for me, mother, watch and wait, and be
My guardian angel still, until with thee
I bow with holy joy to worship Him
"Who sitteth on the throne" of heaven's might.

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LA POLA.
—
" 'Tis still the same—and this the Tyrant's creed,
The brave must perish still, the virtuous bleed—
Yet lesson'd by the examples which they leave,
The living shall avenge them, but not grieve—
Their blood has watered well our freedom's tree,
And sweetly hallows human Liberty:—
Even woman, too—a dearer sacrifice,
Oh! hapless gain for freedom, when she dies!"

The Colombians, generally, will long remember LA
POLA. With the history of their struggle for freedom,
her story is deeply associated, and the tragical destiny
which followed her love of country, is linked with all
the interest of the most romantic adventure. Her
spirit seemed made of the finest materials, while her
patriotism and courage, to the last, furnish a model
which it would have been well for her country, had it
been more generally adopted and followed by its sons.

Dona Apolinaria Zalabariata, better known by the
name of La Pola, was a young lady of good family in
Bogota, distinguished not less by her personal accomplishments
than her rich and attractive beauty. She
was but a child when Bolivar commenced his struggles
with the ostensible object of freeing his country from
the trammels of its oppressors. Her father, a gentleman
of considerable acquirements as well as wealth,
warmly seconded the designs of the Liberator, though
from circumstances compelled to forbear any active
agency himself in their promotion. He was a republican
of considerable resources and sleepless perseverance;
and, without taking up arms himself, he probably contributed
quite as much to the success of the experiment
for liberty as those who did. In this he was warmly
seconded by his daughter, who, with the ingenuity of
contrivance commonly ascribed to her sex, was, perhaps,
the most valuable auxiliary that Bolivar had in Bogota.

She was but fourteen years of age, when accident
gave her the first glance of the man afterwards the
President of her country. At this time, with few resources,
and fewer friends and coadjutors, Bolivar occasioned
little distrust, and, perhaps, commanded as little
attention. Still, he was known, and generally recognized
as an enemy to the existing authorities. Prudence was
necessary, therefore; and it was at midnight, and during
a severe thunder-storm, that he entered the city, and
made his way, by arrangement, into the inner apartments
of the house of Zalabariata. A meeting of the
conspirators—for such they were—had been contemplated
on this occasion, and many of them were in attendance.
The circumstances could not be altogether
concealed from the family, and La Pola, who had heard
something of Bolivar which had excited her curiosity,
contrived to be present, though partially concealed by
her habit, and by a recess situation which she had
chosen. The Liberator explained his projects to the
assembly. He was something more than eloquent—he
was impassioned; and the warmth of a southern sun
seemed burning in his words and upon his lips. La
Pola heard him with ill-concealed admiration. Not so
her countrymen. Accustomed to usurpation and overthrow,
they were slow to adventure life and property
upon the predictions of one who, as yet, had given so
few assurances of success for the game which he had in
hand. They hesitated, they scrupled, and opposed to
his animated exhortations a thousand suggestions of prudence—
a thousand calculations of fear. The Liberator

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grew warmer and more vehement. He denounced in
broad language the pusillanimity which, as much as the
tyranny under which they groaned, was the curse of his
country.

"Am I to go alone?" he exclaimed, passionately; "am
I to breast the enemy singly? Will none of you come
forward and join with me in procuring the liberation of
our people? I ask you not, my countrymen, to any
grievous risk—to any rash adventure. There is little
peril, be assured, in the strife before us. We are more
than a match, united among ourselves and with determined
spirits, for twice, aye thrice, the power which they
can bring into the field. But even were not this the
case—were it that the chances were all decidedly against
us—I cannot see, still, how you can, or why you should,
hesitate to draw the sword in such a strife. You daily
and hourly feel the exactions and witness the murders
and cruelties of your masters. Thousands of your
friends and relatives lie rotting in the common prisons,
denied the most common attentions and necessaries, and
left to perish under innumerable privations. Thousands
have perished in torture, and over the gateway of your
city; but now, as I entered, hanging in chains, the
bleaching bones of old Hermano, one of your best citizens,
destroyed because he dared to speak freely his
thought of these doings, attest the uncompromising and
bloody tyranny under which you must momentarily look
for a like fate. If you be men—if you have hearts or
hopes—if you have affections to lose and live for—you
surely will not hesitate as to the choice—the only choice
which a freeman, one worthy and desirous of the name
—should be allowed to make."

The Liberator paused, as much through exhaustion as
from a desire to enable his hearers to reply. But, with
this latter object, his pause seemed made entirely in
vain. The faces of all around him were blank and
speechless. They were generally quiet, well-meaning
citizens, unaccustomed to any enterprises save those of
trade, and they were slow to risk the wealth which many
of them possessed in abundance, to the certain confiscation
which would follow any overt exhibition against the
existing authorities. While in this state of hopeless
and speechless indecision, the emotions of the chief
were scarcely controllable. His whole frame trembled
with the excitement of his spirit. He paced their ranks
hurriedly—now pausing with this and that personage—
appealing to them singly as he had done collectively, and
suggesting a thousand arguments of weight for the
effecting of his purpose. He became impatient at
length, and again addressed them:

"Men of Bogota, you are not worthy to be free, if
you can hesitate longer. Your chains and insecurity
will have been merited, and be assured, when they become
necessary to the wants of your enemy, your present
acquiescence to his power will not avail for the protection
of your lives or property. They are both at his
mercy, and he will not pause, as you have done, to make
use of them. To save them from him, you must risk
them for yourselves. To suppose that his mercies will
keep them for your benefit, is to think madly. There is
no security against power but in power; and to check
the innovating terrors of the one, you must exhibit, at
the threshold, the strong-armed vengeance of the other.
A day—an hour—and it may be too late. To-morrow,
unless I am betrayed to-night"—looking with a sarcas-