Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

2 his wife he gathered the following intelligence. She told him that the Master of Life had fall en in love with her and her two children, and had therefore transformed them all into spir its, with a view of preparing them for a home in the sky. She also told him that they would not depart for their future home until the com ing spring, but would in the meantime roam in distant countries till the time of his own trans portation should arrive. Having finished her communication, she and her children immedi ately commenced a song, which resembled the distant winds, when they all r<?se gracefully from the tree, and leaning forward upon the air, darted away across the Lake toward the remote South. A cheerless and forlorn moon did the poor Indian spend in his lonely lodge on the mar gin of the great Lake. Spring came, and just as the last vestige of snow had melted from the woods, and at the quiet evening hour, his spirit-wife again made her appeaVance ac companied hy her two children. She told her husband that he might become a spirit by eat ing a certain berry, lie was delighted with the idea, and, complying with her advice, he suddenly became transformed into a spirit, and having flown to the side of his wife and chil dren, the party gradually began to ascend in to the air, when the Master ot Life thought proper to change them into a family of Shoot ing Stars. He allotted to each a particular di vision of the heavens, and commanded them to remain there forever, as the guardians of the great nation of Lake Huron. ©ricjinal poetni. For the Southern Literary Gazette. FIFTY YEARS. BY LEILA CAMERON. Yoars have rolled on, their rapid flight Scarce marked hy any trace, Save those deep lines which sorrow’s blight lias left on thy dear face. Old time speeds on with stern control, O’er human smiles and tears; And thou hast numbered on life’s scroll, The sum of Fifty Years! Thy raven locks are gleaming now, With many a silver thread, And grief and care upon thy brow, Their furrows deep have spread. But still upon thy wayward child, Beams as in days of yore,— From thy blue eye go meek and mild, The smile it overwore. For fifty years, upon thy head, The storms of life have beat; Still thou the toilsome path dost tread, Though weary are thv feet. But Father dear, their blighting snows, Have failed thy heart to chill; The sunshine of thy spirit glows, All bright and genial still! 1 know the v, .M ’ oft opprest, Thy soul W: Ji .’ ires and fears ; That few have • on thy hours of rest, Ju atf those fifty years ; For onward as thy steps advanced, New scenes of toil and strife Have met time since thy barque was launched, Upon the sea of Life ! And yet, dear Father, God has blessed Thy life with much of good ; Aud Joy has often been a guest, Where Grief has sometimes stood. The shadows which at times have veiled The future from thy sight; Have oft dispersed, and thou hast hailed With joy, the dawning light! Some in whose friendship thou didst trust, Have played a traitor’s part; And some beneath the silent dust. Heed not thy loving heart. But on thy am . still fondly leans The chosen of thv youth ; And in her eve still kindly beams, The light of love and truth ! Thy children gather round thy hearth, A happy household band ; Bright eyes are dancing in their mirth, While hand is linked in hand. SHEtESI 1L 0 ITS &&IB ¥ Thy sons and daughters, Father dear, Will bless thee with their love, As peacefully thou drawest, near, Thy home of rest above ! And oh ! to God we humbly raise Our fervent, earnest prayer, To guard thy life through future days From every wasting care. And may those future days be crowned, With all that life endears, Anti not one grief be in them found, That marked these Fifty Years ! For the Southern Literary Gazette. THY SPIRIT IS MY ONLY THRONE. B Y W M . N . WHITE*. Thy spirit is my only throne, Yet proudly may I sing, The fulness of the pomp and power, With which I reign a king. No other monarch lives, 1 deem, Can boast such dignity Supreme. My subjects are each gentle thought That dwells within thy breast; Each hope and love-awakened fear, Which robs thee of thy rest. Thy heart’s best feelings reverent wait, To do me honor in my state. And 1 have treasures, but their sheen Gilds not the rich man’s hoard. Thy warm affections, pure within, Are duly round me poured. These mines such royal tribute bring, I’m richer far than Lydian king. Then let not others deem me poor, Or destitute of sway ; My wealth and power shall never fail, Theirs linger but a day ; While I no loss of mine shall mourn, Theirs on the whirlwind’s wing arebome. Athens, Ga.’ sl)c (Essayist. For the Southern Literary Gazette. INFLUENCES OF SPRING. BY C. VAVASOUR IiOLROYD. “ Once there was a little voice, Merry as the month of May, That did cry “ Rejoice ! Rejoice !” Now—’tis flown away ! I would give a mine of gold, Could 1 hear that little voice— Could 1, as in days of old, At a sound, rejoice.”—Cornwall. Spring is here again—exquisite Spring! — with her wealth of loveliness and fragrance lavished around us, —with her bright skies, her balmy winds, gay flowers, and her singing birds, —all those accompaniments which fill our sense with delight, and our hearts with gratitude to God. It would almost seem as though it were intended that in this season, there should be only happiness on earth— that so much external beauty should bring with it a Lethean influence which should ban ish all remembrance of inward griefs; that fora time the objective only should have pow er over us, and our most profound emotion should be a rejoicing in the goodness of God, who, mindful of our happiness, has surround ed us with so much that shall minister to it. The high blue heavens attracting our upward gaze seem so full of purity and holy beauty, that.we can almost fancy we behold the “lid less eye of God” watching over us; and hush! that tremor of the air, was it not the shiver of wings, as the spirits of the blessed, the minis tering spirits, drew nearer to us in this calm hour to assure us of their presence and of their guardianship ? Earth seems almost beautiful enough now to woo them hack to it. Look over its fair expanse; the luxuriant and grace ful foliage ol the frees would make us fancy that a sudden accession of wealth had enabled old Mother Earth to clothe and adorn her off spring with a richer and gayer garb than ever before. But let the fancy rest, and read a lesson from this luxury of apparrelling. It teacheth us that as the germ of so much beauty lay concealed in the cherishing lap of earth, while frosts and storms held dominion around it, so, hidden and unsuspected, there lieth in our hearts during the sad, stern winter of our sor row, the seeds of all the good and excellent things man then learneth to devise; there is latent the power to clothe and adorn our lives with the waving and beautiful foliage which will enable us to render better and lovelier the world we dwell in ; by this we would indi cate those graces of spirit which shall win all who have knowledge of them to desire to be like unto us—those virtues whose refreshing shadow shall attract the desolate and life weary to sit down beside us, and there gath er new energy to pursue their toilsome jour ney —mew strength to struggle with the world’s temptation. The Flowers, too, have their lesson to teach us, — “ They tell of a season when man was not, When earth was by Angels trod, And leaves and flowers in every spot, Burst forth at the call of God. When Spirits singing their hymns at even, Wandered by hill and glade, And the Lord looked down from the highest Heaven And blessed what he had made — The bright, bright flowers. The blessing remaineth upon them still, Tho’ often the storm-cloud lowers, Tho’ frequent tempests may soil and chill, The gayest of Earth’s fair flowers. W hen Sin and Death with their sister Grief, Made a home in tho hearts of men, The blessing of God on each tender leaf, Preserved in their beauty then— Tho bright, bright flowers. The lily is lovely as when it slept On the waters of Eden’s lake ; And sweet is the woodbine as when it crept In Eden, from brake to brake. They were left as a proof of the loveliness Os Adam and Eve’s first home ! They are here as a type of the joys that bless The Just in a world to come — The bright, bright flowers.” With all this loveliness, having with it at this season the charm of novelty, after winter's as pect has been so long oppressing us—why is it that we do not yield to the influences which surround us; that we turn a deaf ear to the lessons Nature teacheth? Why does this beau ty seem only mocking us, the flowers saying to us, “We are gay and may rejoice in the sunshine, for we have never cause for sorrow. It is only you who are called upon to wear the garb of grief ?” Why does the song of the bird tell us of joy and gladness, of the warb ler’s exemption from the woes of our race, while we are breathing forth only sighs, and uttering our murmunngs against the ordain ings of God's Providence ? The very breezes, revelling in the luxuriant foliage, or wanton ing with the fragrance of flowers, pierce our spirits with their glad tones and voices of mel ody. Where is ‘ that chiTdhood of the heart Which used to come with Spring T I can recall the time, when I would lie down upon a bank under the shadow of a mighty tree, and trifling with the curious leaves which mingled with the moss, or the flowers which relieved its hue, enjoy a degree of happiness that now excites my wonder and envy, as I live over in memory those hours— “ to breathe, to live, Did such exceeding pleasure to me give.” As years went by, sunshine and shade, green leaves and flowers were not quite suf ficient for such perfect enjoyment, and a choice hook bore me company, to add to the scene the charm of romance or poetry. By and by, a letter from an absent friend was read there in place of the book; my highest happiness con sisting now in the expressions of affection therein repeated to me—in the oft-told tale of love which is each time pleasanter to hear. Thus passed away my youth,—but many years have gone into the past since then ; and now when the violets appear, and I sink into the silence of voiceless thought, I am often oppressed with sadness, not as was Richter’s immortal old man, who “was unhappy in spring-time because that is the season of hope, and rich with phantoms of far happier days than any which this Aceldama of earth can realize : for, God be thanked, there is no ask ing eye directed upwards towards Heaven, to which Death will not one day bring an an swer!” But the language of another shall give expression to the feelings which Spring awakeneth. “ I cannot but feel every year, with the re turn of the violet, how much the shadows of my mind have deepened since’ its last appear ance; and. to me, the spring, with all itsjov and beauty, is generally a time of thoughtful ness, rather than mirth. Never do the ‘ Fond, strange yearnings from the soul’s deep cel]. Gush for the faces we no more shall see.’ with such uncontrollable power as when all external nature breathes of life and gladness. Amidst the bright and joyous things around us, we are haunted with images of death and the grave. The force of contrast, not less strong than that of analogy, is unceasingly remind ing us of the great gulf that divides us from those who are now “gone down in silence.” Some unforgotten voice is ever whispering— ‘And 1 too in Arcadia.’ \Ye remember how we were wont to rejoice in the soft air and pleasant sunshine, and these things charm us no longer ‘because they are not.’ The fare well sadness of Autumn on the contrary—its falling leaves and universal imagery of decay —by bringing more home to us the sense of our mortality, identifies us more closely with those who have gone before, and the veil of separation becomes, as it were, more transpa rent. We are then impressed with a pervad ing conviction that ‘we shall go to them while in Spring every thing seems mournful ly to echo ‘ they will not return to us.’ ” AUld thus runs the record of human life.— The season of buds and blossoms came around —and on a sunny day in May I was ont; of a funeral train which took its way to the burial ground. A small coffin was de posited in beside a larger grave over which grass was not yet green. They were burying my sister by the side of my father, and thus, in less than a year, two of our house hold had departed from <jur midst, leavin gon ly their memories around which the torn and bleeding tendrils of our affections might cling. Both were victim's of consumption—the evil spell which long hung over our house—both went down into the grave leaving behind them hearts rent with anguish for their loss. And in the years which have gone by since then whom have -I mourned ? The friend of my girlhood and sister of my love, the child of fortune, the idol of the lonely old man whose only child she was, the beloved of an earnest and manly heart which cherished her as a wife should be ;■ and, when Death found her, the proud mother of a boy whose beauty and rare promise filled her heart with inex pressible joy. They laid her body in a city vault till the spring-time came, and the be reaved husband carried the love of his youth and buried her among the haunts of her child hood, where year after year we had welcom ed the spring-flowers. There were others—two young girls, my cousins—whom careful training had well prepared for life—with richly cultivated minds —hearts full of warm affections—and adorn ed with the various graces and accomplish ments which give a charm to the sterner real ities of our existence. They passed away— in the same summer month they closed their eyes upon the sunshine and flowers. In the prime cf life and of a noble fame, another loved as a brother, was called away from the arms of his bride, and his high sta tion among men. Again, went down into the grave, a friend, noble and true, skilled in the world's wisdom, and in the graces of life— the eldest of a large family of fatherless chil dren, the stay of a widowed mother; but he carried with him his greatest wealth—a se rene yet triumphant faith, which sustained him to the last. I am sad when it is Spring, for again and again 1 have seen the grave close over mv children. And when the air is balmiest, and most redolent with music, then is deepest and most mournful the sad reality of my bereavement. At such times I had looked up on them with the proudest and fondest emo-