Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE: Jin Jllustratcir iUrekltj Journal of Belles-Cettres, Science anlr tl)c Jtrts. WM. C. RICHARDS, EDITOR. Original JjJcctq). For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE STATESMAN. BY W . GILMORE SIMMS, ESQ., Author of ‘Guy Rivers,’ ‘Yemasee,’ ‘Atalantis,’ &c. Well, if it be that Fortune’s sun is setting, And friends that cheer’d thee in thy happier day, Turn from thy griefs, thy glorious gifts forgetting, And faithless prove when faith had been thy stay; Vet not all hopeless in thy heart, —forsaken Os those alone who came when day was bright,— Thou bear £ st a soul that storms have never shaken, And resolute will to tread the path of right. And this is still to con quo,', though we perish ! ’Tis no defeat, when, steadfast in our hearts, We still, o’er all, the sacred purpose cherish, Though all the hope that grew with it departs;— The will that moves us to the strife unquailing, Still keeps the faith unchanging it believes ; Tho’, in the hope that dream’d of conquest, failing, The future still avenges and —retrieves! And, to thyself still true, in every fortune, The very foes must honor, who o’erthrow; Talm, steadfast, firm —O ! why shouldst thou impor tune The fate, whosy seasons still must come and go 1 Thou hast no loss in ever-losing struggle, Because thou strivest still in Duty’s cause: Rejecting still the bauble and the juggle, True to thyself, the virtues, and the laws. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE TWO GRAVES. BY MRS. CAROLINE LEE IIENTZ. Where the soft and solemn moonlight Falls, like a silver veil, ’ On the graves of two young infants, Wanders a mourner pale. On one, a grass-grown covering The hand of Time has spread ; The damp earth on the other Reveals a new-made bed. There, side by side, they slumber, And never more will wake, Till the trump of the Archangel The realms of Death shall shake. And who art thou, pale mourner, Whose stilly footsteps roam In the pale and solemn moonlight, Beside each infant tomb Methinks a low voice answers: “ I come to mourn my dead ; Oh ! none, beside a mother, Such tears as mine can shed. “ These arms have been their cradle Their pillow, this fond breast; And now on earth’s cold bosom, Their cherub forin3 must rest. 1 One, from my heart was taken In beauty’s morning bud hre Sin could mar its whiteness Transplanted by its God. “ Another, on the ruins Bloomed, a celestial flower, And gilt, with hues of heaven, My late deserted bower. “ My boy, my pride, my treasure My beautiful, my fair! Oh God ! what weight of sorrow she human heart can bear ! Day after day I watched him Languish and writhe in pain, Without the power to bid him Look up and smile again. 1 saw his cheek of roses lo waxen whiteness turn, And his eyes of dove-like softness M ith hectic splendour burn. l ’ * met his dying glances, I caught his last chill breath, And saw around him falling The grey, cold ehades of death. “ I saw, and did not perish Though could life-blood save, I would have sheed it freely To snatch him from the grave. “Father! forgive these murmurs, I kiss the chastening rod And own the hand that smites me, Tho mighty hand of God. “ I thank thee, oh, my Saviour, That I, a child of earth, Have given for thy own glory, Two spotless angels birth. “ For thou, when once incarnate, Such little ones embra; ou, And on their brows of beauty Thy hand in blessing plaeed. “ Then take the priceless treasures Committed to my trust: Thine be their ransomed spirits, But mine their sleeping dust.” —Heaven bless thee in thy sorrow, Thou mother of the dead ; May the dew of heavenly mercy On thy blighted heart be shed. And when thou wanderest lonely In the pale and silver light, May the angels thou hast given, Come through the stilly night. And rustling softly o’er thee Their young and glorious wings, Breathe in thy soul a blessing, Lent from the King of kings. ©rtglnal Sranalatlons. For the Southern Literary Gazette. THE ARTIST’S DEATH. A SKETCH FROM THE GERMAN. BY WM . N . WHITE. As the epoch of the revival of learning produced men the most remarkable, and learned men of the most energetic genius, so also, at the time when the art of Painting went forth as a Phoenix from her long quiet ashes, flourished those men most noble and eminent in their art. It is regarded as the artist’s true heroic age —and one may sigh, like Ossian, that the strength and greatness of that heroic period have departed from the earth. Many have existed, in many places, who have elevated and distinguished themselves, solely through their own inborn strength: their lives and their labors have weight, and are well worth the care of being transmitted to posterity in ample chronicles, like those we inherit from the hands of the contemporary worshippers of art; for their spirits were as remarkable as are their bearded heads, which in the admirable collections of their portraits we still contemplate with admiration and awe. There occurred among them many unusual, and indeed, now, incredible events, for the enthusiasm, which now Only glimmers as a faint rush-light, in that golden age inflamed the whole world. Degenerate posterity doubts, or laughs at, as fabulous, so many true nar ratives of that age, because the divine spark has wholly vanished from our minds. Among the remarkable narratives of those times, and one which I could never read with out astonishment—but which still, in my heart, I have never yet been able to doubt, is the description of the death of the old painter, Francisco Francia, the father and founder of the school of painting, existing in Bologna and Lombardy. This Francisco was the son of a poor me chanic, but through his own unwearied energy and ever aspiring spirit, raised him self to the highest pinnacle of fame. In his youth he was first a goldsmith, and formed ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JUNE 10, 1848. such ingenious things of gold and silver, that all who saw them were astonished. He also for a long time engraved the dies for medals; and dukes and princes made it a point of ho nor, that their own heads upon their coinage should be of his engraving. It was then still an age, when all the nobles of the land, and all the fellow'-citizens of the artist, vied, with their loud applause, to make him proud. An infinite number of great personages came through Bologna, and neglected not to obtain their portraits from Francisco, and afterwards to have them cut in metal, and stamped upon their coin. But Francisco’s ever active, fiery soul, stretched towards anew field of labor, and the more his ardent ambition was gratified, the more impatient was he to strike out some new and untrodden path to glory, Already forty years old, he entered the portals of a new art. With unconquerable patience he devoted himself to the pencil, and directed his whole attention to the study of composition in genera], and the effects of color —and it was extraordinary how soon he produced works which were held in admiration. In truth, he became a distinguished painter.— Even then, when he had many rivals, and when the divine Raphael painted at Rome, they always justly numbered the productions of our artist among the most remarkable; since surely beauty in art is not so poor and beggarly a thing that one man's life is able to exhaust it—£nd her reward is not a prize which falls only to a single elected one; her light rather radiates in a thousand streams, the reflection of which, in the manifold styles of the great artists, whom Heaven has placed in this world, is thrown back to our enrapt ured eyes. Indeed, Francisco lived in that first genera tion of noble artists, who enjoyed the great and uncommon distinction of founding, amid the wrecks of barbarism, anew and splendid realm; and in Lombardy he was truly the founder, and as it were, the first prince of the newly established empire. His skilful hand perfected an innumerable multitude of mag nificent paintings, which were scattered not only through all Lombardy, (wherein no city would allow it to be said that it did not pos sess at least one proof of his labors.) but in the other States of Italy; and all those, whose eyes were so fortunate as to behold them, loudly published his praise. The Italian princes and magnates were eager to possess portraits by him; and eulogiums upon him flowed in from all sides. Travellers published his name in the countries they visited; and the flattering echo of their reports came back to his ear. The citizens of Bologna, who frequented Rome, praised the artist of their father-land to Raphael, and he, who had seen ana admired some of his productions, made known to him his regard and affection in a letter, written with his own gentle and pecu liar courtesy. The writers of his age could not contain themselves; his praise is in all their works; they directed the eyes of pos terity upon him; and with grave countenan ces narrated that he would hereafter be hon ored as a god. One of them is daring enough to assert, that at the sight of his Madonna, Raphael left oil the dry and barren manner which adhered to him from the school of Pe rugia, and took at once a bolder style. What effect Could these repeated plaudits have upon the mind of our Francisco, but j that his active soul should raise itself to the noblest pride of art; and he began to believe j that a heavenly genius dwelt within him.— Where now do we find this elevated pride I We vainly seek it among the artists of our ! own time, who are vain enoii,gk of themselves, but they are not proud of their art. VOLUME I.—NUMBER 5. Raphael was the only one of the painters of that age whom Francisco at all allowed to be considered his rival. Meanwhile, he had never been so fortunate as to see a painting from his hand; for he had never travelled far from Bologna. Yet, after many descriptions, he had formed in his mind, a fixed idea of Raphael’s manner, and was fully persuaded, (and especially so by Raphael’s modest and very deferential tone towards himself,) that in most of his pieces he equalled, and in some, perhaps excelled him. It was reserved for his old age to see with his own eyes a picture of Raphael’s. A letter, wholly unexpected, came from Raphael, which communicated to him the news, that the writer had completed an altar piece of St. Cecilia, which was destined for the church of St. John, at Bologna; and he added that he would therefore send the piece to him, his friend, and begged Francisco to do him the favor to see that it was properly adjusted in its place; and if in any way it were injured by the journey, or if beside, he discovered any fault or oversight in it, he de sited him to correct and retouch it. This letter, wherein a Raphael placed the pencil in his hand, made him beside himself; and he impatiently waited the arrival of the piece. He knew not what was before him. Once, while returning home from his walk, his scholars hastened to meet him and told him with great joy, that Raphael’s picture had come, and that they had already placed it in the best light. Francisco, overjoyed, rushed in. But how shall I describe, to the men of this age, the sensations which this extraordinary man then felt rending his soul. It was to him as to one who wished to embrace a broth er separated from himself since childhood, and saw, instead, an angel of light before his eyes; it was to him as if he had sunk upon his knees, in the full contrition of his heart, be fore a higher existence. He stood there thunderstruck. His scholars thronged round the old man—supported him — asked him what had happened; and they knew not what to think. He partially recovered and gazed, ever mo tionless, upon that truly divine form. How had he at once fallen from his height! How heavily must he atone for the sin of having too arrogantly raised himself to the stars, and placed himself ambitiously over him , the in imitable Raphael! He bent his grey head, and wept bitter, painful tears, that he had wasted his whole life in vain, ambitious toils, and he had only made himself, by them, ever the more foolish; and that now, finally, he must look back upon his whole life as a mis erable failure. With elevated countenance, he lifted his eyes also to the holy Cecilia— showed to heaven his wounded, repentant. heart, and humbly prayed forgiveness. He felt so weak that his scholars were o bliged to place him in bed. At the door of his chamber, several of his own paintings met his eye—particularly his dying Cecilia, which still hung there, and he almost swooned with pain. From that time his spirit was in continual agitation and they remarked in him almost always a certain absence of mind. There fell upon him the weakness of old age, and the lassitude of a mind reacting, which had been so long exerted, with ever-strained activity, in the creation of a thousand varied forms. The house of his spirit was shattered to the ground. All the innumerable and manifold shapes which had affected him in his artist soul, and which, in lines and colors, had passed into reality upon his canvass, now rushed with distorted features through his