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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