Newspaper Page Text
SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZ
WM. € RICHARDS, EDITOR,
©rigimxl Ipoctri).
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE WEE LITTLE THING.
BY HON. 808 T. M . CHARLTON.
There’s a wee little thing in this world of ours,
And it moveth and moveth the live-long day,
*tnd tho’ the sun shines, and tho’ the storm low’rs.
It chattereth on with its ceaseless lay;
Over peasant and king,
Its spell it hath flung,
That dear little thing
A lady’s tongue!
There’s a wee little thing in this world of ours,
And it throbbeth and throbbeth the live-long day,
And in palace halls, and in leafy bowers,
It holdeth alike its potent sway;
Bright joy can it bring,
Or deep sorrow impart,
That dear little thing,
A lady’s heart!
There’s a wee little thing in this world of ours,
And it sparkleth and sparkleth the live-long day;
To dew drop that hangs on the morning flowers,
Is so beaming and bright as its beauteous ray ;
No skill can we bring
That its shaft can defy,
That dear little thing,
A lady’s eye!
There are many charms in this world of ours,
That cluster and shine over life’s long day ;
The wealth of the mine, and the statesman’s powers,
And the laurels won in the bloody fray;
jNo spell can they fling
That my bosom can move,
Like that witching thing,
A lady’s love!
For the Southern Literary Gazett*.
A MEMORY,
B V MRS. JOSEPH C. NEAL.
A! the door you will not enter,
I have b iized too loii;^, —adieu!
Hope withdraws her peradventure,
Death is near me and not you.
[Miss Barrett.
Slowly fades the misty twilight.
O’er the thronged and noisy town ;
Clouds are gathered in the distance,
And the clouds above it frown.
Yet before her leaves swayed lightly
In the hushed and drowsy air,
And the trees reclothed in verdure,
1 lad no murmur of despair.
•She had gazed into the darkness,
Seeking through the busy crowd,
For a form once pressing onward
With a step as firm and proud.
For a face upturned in gladness
To the window where she leaned —
-Smiling with an eager welcome,
Though a step but intervened.
Even now her cheek is flushing
With the rapture of that gaze;
And her heart as then beats wildly—
Oh, the memory of those days!
Asa dear, dear dream, it cometh,
Swiftly as a dream it flies !
To one springeth now toward her.
Smiling with such earnest eyes ;
No one hastens home at twilight,
Watching for her hand to wave ;
For the form she seeks so vainly,
Sleeps within the silent grave;
A .nd the eyes have smiled in dying,
Blessing her with latest life,
Smiled in closing o’er the discord,
Os the last wild, earthly strife.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LOYE: A FRAGMENT.
Mas! thou build’st on love, and thou art lost!
Love’s a poor changeling in disastrous hour,
i hat seeks not the companionship of grief,
And little yields, to succor him who seeks.
Twas in the shape of love, methinks, at first,
That Ahrimanes subtly pierced the egg
ff Ormusd to the centre.* WILFRED.
* <J AOd Ahrimanes, 'the Persian good and evil prin-
Hit illustrated iDeeklg Journal of Selles-Ccttrcs, Science and tlje Hrts.
CHARLESTON HOTEL, CHARLESTON, S. C.
This beautiful edifice is one of the most striking objects in one of the finest streets in any
city of the South. It is situated on Meeting Street, distinguished for the tine Church of St.
Michael’s, and other handsome buildings. The Charleston Hotel, is, we believe, the prop
erty of the City, and is leased by the Council to the present efficient managers, Messrs.
Butterfield & Hurst. The former gentleman is known to all travelers whose journey
ings have carried them to Charleston; and he is not better known than esteemed for his un
surpassed courtesy and kindness of manner to his guests. If it be’true that “ good wine
needs no hush,” then, by parity of reasoning, a good hotel needs no extrinsic recommendation.
[Editor.
Ait Allcgorfl.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE VICTOR MONARCH'S BRIDE.
BY MRS. CAROLINE LEE HINTZ.
“I will not be thy bride—thou canst offer
me neither rank, nor wealth, nor fame. Plead
not the value of a true and loving heart to
me. Behodd yon flower, whose leafllets are
withering in the sun. Like the bloom of that
flower, will thy love pass away, leaving be
hind it poverty and desolation.” Thus spoke
the maiden and turned away in disdain.—
“She was covered with the light of beauty,
but her heart was the house of pride.” The
gems of Golconda were less bright than the
resplendent jewelry of her eyes, and the pearls
of Ind were less pure and fair than the arms
and bosom they adorned. Far beyond the
boundary of her native hills, had the fame of
her beauty spread, and many a brave kmght
and proud lordling had laid their laurels and
honors at her feet, but in vain. The haugnty
maiden spurned their offerings, and mocked the
power of that love which she inspired. “ 1
will be the bride of a king,” she cried. “ A
diadem shall adorn this brow of regal loveli
ness, or the virgin’s wreath shall bloom and
wither there.”
One evening, the beautiful Cleora sat in her
moon-lighted bower, and never did the celes
tial luminary of night look down upon a fair
er, more angelic form. No wonder that the
sons of men were maddened as they gazed
upon her, for the icicle, glittering in the sun
beam, is not colder than the glance that re
pelled their passionate advances. She sat in
the soft and loving moonlight, clad in white
and flowing robes, which shone like silver in
the heavenly rays. A strain of low, sweet
music, rose on the perfumed air, and floated
round the bower. For a moment, the heart
of Cleora yielded to the gentle influences of
the hour.- The white and pensive moonlight,
the rich aroma of the vernal flowers, the melt
ing breath of that heavenly music, all mingled
and surrounded her spirit with a holy and
mystic spell. At length, a youth emerged
from the green shades and knelt in homage
at her feet. His dark eyes, lifted to hers,
beamed with the radiance of youth and love;
and while his hand swept the lyre, his voice
uttered, in strains of thrilling melody, the
glowing language of passion and adoration.
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, AUGUST 19, 1848.
As Cleora looked down upon his graceful
figure, she thought how sweet it would be to
live thus, in that moon-lighted bower, breath
ing the fragrance of that dewy atmosphere,
and listening to the music of those love
breathing lips. The unwonted emotions that
softened the proud lustre of her charms, in
spired the youth with hope and rapture.
“Be mine,” he exclaimed—“oh! maiden,
more beautiful than an angel’s aright dream.
I have no wealth, but an unconquered aim
and a devoted heart. But I will bear thee to
a lan 1, where the flowers shall ever blossom
beneath thy feet, and the nightingale’s song
lull thee to repose. We will not need earth’s
sordid riches, for love will pour its golden
treasures round us. Nor shall thou lack for
royalty, for, queen of this fond heart, thy
throne shall last, when principalities and
powers are mouldered into dust.”
The transient softness that had subdued for
a moment the haughty spirit of the maiden,
vanished like the cloud that passed swiftly
over the pale face of the moon. The demon
of ambition resume 1 its cold grasp on her
heart, and the vision of love passed away.
“I will not be thy bride,” she answered;
and the youth, turning upon her one sad, re
proachful glance, departed from her sight.
The maiden was left alone with her pride.
The cheek of Cleora lost its roseate loveli
ness, and a dim cloud stole almost impercep
tibly over her starry eyes. The lovers, whom
her coldness had chilled and her disdain ha l
humbled, no longer made the night-gloom vo
cal with her praise. Again she sat in the
moon-lighted bower, hut a leaden weight was
pressing on her heart. The breeze, as it
rustled the leaves of her bower, sounded like
the mournful voice of invisible spirits. The
golden hues of autumn were beginning to
gild the foliage, and here and there a fallen
leaflet whispered of nature’s sad decay.
Where were the roses of spring, and the
fragrance of summer? where the graceful
minstrel and his heart-thrilling lyre? Alas!
‘lover and friend were gone,” and her soul
was dwelling in darkness.
But hark ! what strain of deep and solemn
music comes stealing through the shadows of
night ? Never before had her bower echoed
to such grand, kingly melody. The stiains
came nearer and yet more near. A dark, ma
jestic form, approaches and bows its regal
head at the maiden’s feet. She recoils with
awe and terror, for the figure is clothed in
VOLUME I.—NUMBER IS?
robes of raven blackness, and the crown that
encircles his brow beams with a dark splen
dor, such as kingly diadem never wore be
fore. The maiden’s cheek turned whiter than
snow, but the fire of ambition kindled in her
heart. “I shall yet he the bride of a King,”
said the voice of her soul, “and vassals shall
bow at my command.”
“Cleora,” exclaimed the dark figure, “I
come to bear thee to a realm even more vast
and magnificent than thy ambition ever pant
ed for. Kings are my vassals, and empire?
are my footstools. Far as the glories of
creation extend, iny kingdom is set up, and
the trophies of a universe adorn my palace
walls. I woo thee to be my bride, thou mai
den of the cold and haughty brow. I sought
thee not, in the bloom of thy loveliness, when
lovers were sighing around tithe : I waited
till thy cheek was pale, and thine eye grew
dim,and thy beauty was forgotten by the sons of
men. I love thee as thou art, oh! pallid mai
den, dearer than in the pride of thy unfadod
charms. Come, let these arms enfold thee,
and this bosom be the pillow of thy drooping
cheek.”
Cold shivers ran through the maiden’*
veins, as she listened to that deep and soleum
voice. His face was concealed by the bars
of his visof, but she caught the gleam of his
eye, which emitted a strange, unearthly fire
She shrunk from the arms that opened to en
fold her, hut was he not king over a hundred
kings, and would not the spoils of plundered
empires decorate l.e palace? Could earthly
ambition, in its wildest dreams, ever ask for
more ?
She placed her trembling hand in the cold
hand of the royal bri .egroom. He wrapped
his dark, flowing mantle, around her, andbor*
her through the chill and dewy n ght. Sht
felt his breath upon her cheek, and it war
cold as the wintry snow.
“Oh! whither art thou hearing me?” sht
faintly cried. “The moon is covered with *
cloudy veil, and the night-wind sighs sadly
through the trees. The long branches of the
willow sweep across our path, and white mar
ble stones are gleaming through the shades.”
“I am hearing thee home to thy bridal
halls,” replied the hollow voice. “ Those
white stones are the pillars of my sunles*
temple, and of the willow leaves I will make
a garland for my bride.”
He paused on the brink of a yawning chasm.
He opened the bars of his visor, and displayed
the skeleton features of Death. Behold, am
bitious maiden, the bridegroom thou hast cho
sen —the bri lal couch prepared for thee.—
Thou hast rejected love, and joy, and youth,
in the cold pride of thy vain-glorious heart,
and darkness, and loneliness, and decay, shaf
be thy portion forever.”
Slowly he laid her pallid form in that deep
and dark abyss. A narrow house was ready
to receive it, and a snow-white curtain draped
its damp, low walls. Clay-cold sods closed
over the entrance of Beauty’s subterraneat
palace, and the long grass.soon covered k
from the stranger’s eye.
Alas! for the bride of Death.
AN AUGUST SONNET.
BY WILLIAM C. RICHARDS.
“ Oh ! for a lodge in somo vast wilderness,
Some boundless contiguity of shade,”
Some bower by interlacing branches made,
Where I might fly the fervent sun’s caress,
And fling aside the robe of weariness,
Which o’er my spirit like a spell is cast,
Binding its quickly thronging fancies fast,
So ever wont in eager flight to press!
Alas! that August with her burning eye—
Should peer upon the poet’s humblest nooks.
And haunt his steps as if in jealousy,
That he would fain forget her in his books;
Well, be it so ! and his revenge shall be— [thee
He’ll pay no tribute praise, oh! scorching month, U