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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
W M. C. RICHARDS, EDITOR.
©riginal l^octry.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
TWENTY YEARS.
BY CAROLINE HOWARD.
Twenty long years! have they indeed departed,
Since thy blue eyes first shed their light upon me 1
Since we were folded buds in life just started,
Since the soft cadence of thy mild words won me ?
Won me from grief and stayed the falling tear,
And whispered words by childhood’s heart held dear.
Twenty long years! we have thus long been severed,
Yet the remembrance of thy youth comes o’er me,
bringing so many recollections treasured,
That, as thou west thou standest now before me,
Thy blue eyes beaming from thy truthful face,
Fringed by thy flaxen hair, with flowing grace.
Thine arm, upheld with resoluto dominion,
To aid the weak against the oppressing strong ;
Thy voice withholding not for man’s opinion,
To blame the hasty word or greater wrong.
Child as thou wort, the impress then was given
()n thy fair brow, that thou didst hope for Heaven.
Twenty long years! i met thee without heeding
The friend, companion, playmate of my youth ;
Thy spoken name awoke my memory, leading
It back to days of innocence and truth.
The same sad smile, so often marked before,
Sent my unquiet thoughts to days of yore.
Yes, a faint tone —a moment’s recollection—
A thought of childhood, and a blue-eyed boy—
Have given my wavering thoughts a right connec-
And waked my spirit up to grief and joy, [tion,
Like a fair picture of our April skies,
Where clouds are mingled oft with rainbow dyes.
Thy stream of life—l know not of its wending,
If it has glided on through light or shade —
1 only hope no grief thy spirit rending,
Has low with earth thy cherished visions laid ;
That manhood finds thee trusting, pure and mild,
And free from sin as when thou werfc a child.
“ Twenty years gone /” my lips once more repeating,
Draw from my mind the curtains of the past,
When children free our joyful hearts were beating
With youthful plans too fair and bright to last.
Twenty years have —in soul and pious will,
Let us but aim to be God’s children still.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
OLDEN MEMORIES.
BY CHARLES L. WHELER.
When the poppy-wreathed Night
Fills my soul with dreamy sleep,
Mute around ray aching heart
Olden Mem’ries softly creep;
And, as tearful mourners watch,
Still a-near the lovely dead,
There they watch with pallid Hope,
Whose inspiring soul hath fled.
Sleep may pour her opiate,
Like a balm, into my soul,
Lut the ghosts of perished dreams
Haunt its cells without control.
Oome they back in sheeny robes,
And with voice as sweet as yore,
‘frilling o’er my heart’s light chorus
“Nevermore ! O nevermore !”
When the rosy-blushing Morn
Soft into my window creeps,
And dispels the gentle drug
That my soul in slumber steeps,
Far away the watchers fly,
Waving wings that loathly soar,
While they weep and sadly sigh—
*’ Nevermore ! O nevermore !”
1 m >
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
LIGHT AND SHADE.
In shade and sunshine rol's the earth
G t’.f one and half the other :
Thus Friendship is alii'd to Mirth,
And Grief is Joy’s twin-brother.
Laeh forest hath its sunny glade,
Lach flood-tide hath its ebb :
So ;l - mingled woof is made
Li o s frail and curious web.
31 n 3llnotratcir tUcckhj Journal of Bcllco-ficttrco, Science ant) tl)c 3lrts.
popular Sales.
THE ANGEL-BRIDE.
EDITED FROM THE MSS. OF A LATE PHYSICIAN.
It was evening—the evening of a summer
Sabbath. The sweet hush of Nature, un
broken by a single sound of busy life, harmo
nized but too painfully with the oppressive
stillness which pervaded the chamber whither
my footsteps were bent. It was on the ground
floor of a pretty residence in the outskirts of
the village of C . Its open windows
overlooked a garden where Taste and Beauty
reigned supreme—a second Eden, which ex
tended with a scarce perceptible declination
to the very margin of a stream, where it was
bounded by a white picket, and a hedge of
low-trimmed shrubbery, over which the eye
caught the flashing waters as they swept on,
glowing in the crimson radiance of the sun
set.
I entered the house, and stepping lightly
along a carpeted passage, tapped softly at the
door of the chamber of sickness—ay, of
Death.
“ Welcome, Doctor,” said the silvery voice
of a lady, who sat by a low couch, partially
hung with white drapery. “ Welcome!—the
dear sufferer is now in a quiet slumber—but
must presently awake, and one of her first
inquiries will be for you.”
“How is our sweet Lucy now 1”
“ She has been quiet and apparently com
fortable all da}'. It is her Sabbath, doctor,
as well as the worshippers’ who go up to the
earthly courts of our loved Zion. Oh !” she
added, while the sun-light of joy irradiated
her features, pale with long vigils at the bed
side of her sweet Lucy—“ Oh ! how full of
consolation is this scene of mortal suffering,
of earthly bitterness, of expiring hope !”
“Yes, rny dear friend,” I replied, “your
cup of affliction is indeed sweetened from on
high. I have seen Death to-day clad in hi*
robes of terror. He took from my hopeless
care a victim all unprepared, even after fear
ful warning; and the recollection of the sad
struggle, the terrible anguish of the vanquish
ed, the fierce triumph of the Conqueror, and
the piercing wail of exhausted Nature, haunt
my memory still: and even in this earthly
paradise 1 cannot forget them.”
“ And is poor Edwards gone at last to his
dread account? Oh ! how fearful,” ana the
gentle lady covered her face and wept.
Some time elapsed. I lingered at the couch
of Lucy till she should awake, and taking
from the stand a small though elegant copy
of the Bible, I opened its silver clasp, and my
eye caught the simple inscription on its fly
leaf : “To my Lucy—a parting gift from Cla
rence.” 1 had designed to read a portion of
the word, hut thought was for the time en
grossed.
I had known Lucy May from her infancy,
and she was scarcely less dear to me than my
own daughter. Indeed, they Rad grown up
like twin-blossoms, and were together almost
every hour of the day. Seventeen summers
they had each numbered—though Lucy was
some months the elder. Nor brother, nor
sister, had either of them, and hence the in
tensity of theirmutuallove. Their thoughts,
their affections, their tastes, their desires, their
pursuits, were in common. They called each
other “sister,” and their intercourse honored
the endearing name.
And Clarence—the giver of the little vol
ume in my hand—-who was he? Clarence
Hamilton was the son of my best earthly
friend, and a nobler youth—in all the lofty’
faculties and endowments of the heart and
intellect—never rejoiced in the vigor of life
and early manhood. To him had Lucy been
betrothed for more than a year, and he was
now absent from the village, though we trust
ed when each sun rose, that its setting would
bring him back in answer to our cautious
summons. Especially had hope and expec
tation grown strong wiihin.our hearts on that
evening, yet had not a word been spoken on
the subject by the widowed mother of the
lovely Lucy. At length, however, she raised
her head, and observing the open volume in
my hand, she Kiid. in an assumed tone of
cheerfulness—
“l trust Clarence will come this evening.
It is now ”
“Claiencel” said the sweet patient, open
ing her dark eyes, and looking eagerly around.
Her eye rested only on her mother and rr y-
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 23, ISIS.
self, and with a slight quiver on her lip, and
a sad smile, she said, “ He is not come !”
“No ! my darling, he is not yet come ; hut
there is more than an hour to the close of
day, and then ”
“ God grant he may come,” said the maiden,
and she added with energy—“if it be His |
holy will. Oh! Doctor, my kind, dear friend,
your Lucy is wearing away fast, is she not ?”
and then observing the emotion which 1 at
tempted to conceal, she said : “ But I am bet
ter to-day, am I not ? Where is Ellen—why
does she not come?” Her mother turned an
inquiring glance upon me as I took the thin
white hand of the young girl in mine, and
marked the regular hut feeble beatings of the
pulse.
“ Shall I send for your daughter, Doctor?”
she asked.
I acquiesced, and in a few minutes Ellen
was sobbing violently, with her face hidden
on the bosom of her “sister.”
“Ellen, my sweet sister,” said Lucy, “your
father has told me that I must leave you” —
and her voice faltered —“ my own dear moth
er —and ” but she did not utter the name
of her lover, for at that instant the voice of a
domestic was distinctly heard.
“He is come —Mr. Clarence is come!
Now, God bless my dear young lady.”
Lucy uttered a scream of joy, and, clasp
ing Ellen around the neck, murmured—
“ Father in Heaven, I thank thee,” and then
fainted with excess of happiness. Her swoon
was brief. She recovered almost immediate
ly, and her face was radiant with happiness.
Clarence Hamilton was pursuing his stu
dies at a distant college, and the letter which
summoned him to C , had scarcely inti
mated danger in the illness of his betrothed.
It had been delayed on the way, and but half
the time of its journey had sufficed to bring
the eager, anxious student, to the spot where
his heart had stored its affections, and cen
tered its hopes, next to Heaven ; for Clarence
was more than a noble-hearted, high-souled
man: he was a disciple of Jesus Christ, and
he was fitting himself to he an apostle of his
Holy Religion. He had nearly completed
his course of studies, and was then to be uni
ted to the beautiful Lucy May.
Three months before the Sabbath evening
of which we write, Lucy was in health, and
with her companion Ellen was performing
her delightful duties as a Sabbath-school teach
er. Returning home she was exposed to a
sudden storm of rain, and took cold. Her
constitution, naturally feeble, was speedily af
fected, and consumption, that terrible foe to
youth and beauty, seized upon her as anoth
er victim for its mighty holocaust to death.
At first, the type of her disease was mild, but
within three weeks it had assumed a fearful
character, and now her days were evidently
few.
For this dreadful intelligence Clarence was
not prepared. He feared, but he hoped more,
and though his heart was heavy, Hope kin
dled a bright smile on his manly lace as he
entered the little parlor, where he had spent
so many hours of exquisite happiness. He
had alighted from the stage just before it en
tered the village, and proceeded at once to the
residence of Lucy.
As Mrs. May entered the room, the smile
on his lips faded, for her pale face told a tale
to his heart.
“ Clarence, my dear Clarence, you have the
welcome of fond hearts.”
“How is Lucy ? Why is your face so dead
ly pale ? oh ! say she is not dangerously ill,
tell me”—and a thought of keener misery en
tered his heart; “she is—oh my God. my Fa
ther in Heaven, strengthen me—she is dying
—even now dying!”
“ Nay, nay, Clarence,” said the mother,
soothingly. “Lucy lives, and we must hope
for the best; but be not alarmed if you see
her face even paler than my own. Are you
able to bear the sight now ?” There was but
little consolation to his fears in the reply of
Mrs. May. Lucy was living; but there was
anguish in the expression—“ hope for the
best.” and he said hurriedly :
“Oh take me to her at once—now —now.”
and he pressed his hand upon his throbbing
brow, and then sinking on his knees, while
Mrs. May knelt beside him he entreate.l God,
in a voice choked with emotion for strength
to bear this Irial, to kiss the rod of chastise
ment, to receive the bitter with the sweet;
and he prayed that the cup might pass from
him. even as did his Master in the days of
VOLUME I.—NUMBER 20.
His incarnation and anguish. He arose, and
with a calmer voice said :
“ I can see her now.”
At this moment I joined them with Lucy’s
earnest request that Clarence should come to
her at once. We entered the chamber just as
Ellen had partially opened a blind, and the
last rays of sunlight streamed faintly through
into the room, and fell for a moment on the
white cheek of Lucy, rendering its hue still
more snowy. Alas! for Clarence. As his
earnest eyes met those of his betrothed—her
whom he had left in the very flush and per
fection of youthful loveliness now, how
changed! —his heart sank within him, and
with a wild sob of anguish he clasped her
pale thin lingers, and kissed her colorless lips,
kneeling the while at the side of her couch.
“ Clarence, my own Clarence,” said the
sweet girl, with an effort to rise, which she
did supported by his arm. lie spoke not—
he could not—dared not speak!
“ Clarence, cheer up, my beloved; hut her
fortitude failed, and all she could do was to
bury her face in her lover’s bosom, and weep.
We did not attempt to check their grief; nay,
we wept with them, and sorrow for awhile
had its luxury of tears unrestrained.
Clarence at length broke the silence,
“ Lucy, my own loved Lucy! God forgive
me for my selfish griefand he added fei
vently, lifting his tearful eyes to Heaven,
“Father, givens grace to hear this trial a
right,” and turning to me, he added, “ Pray
for us, Doctor —oil! pray that we may have
strength to meet this hour like Christians.”
When the voice of prayer ceased, all our
feelings were calmed, but l deemed it advisa
ble to leave the dear patient to brief repose ;
and Ellen alone remaining, we retired to the
parlor, where Clarence learned from us more
of her illness and of her true condition, for I
dared not delude him with false hopes.
“ Doctor,” said he, with visible anguish,
“ is there no hope ?”
“ Not of recovery, I fear, though she may
linger some time with us, and be better than
she is to-day.”
“ Then God’s will he done,” said the young
man, while a holy confidence lighted up his
face, now scarcely less pale than that of his
betrothed Lucy.
Day after day the dear girl lingered, and
many sweet hours of converse did Clarence
and Lucy pass together; once even she was
permitted to spend a few moments in the por
tico of the house, and as Clarence supported
her, and saw a tint of health overspread her
cheek, hope grew strong in his heart. But
Lucy doubled not that she should die speedi
ly, and happily this conviction had reached
her heart ere Clarence came, so that the ago
ny of her grief, in prospect of separation from
him, had yielded to the blissful anticipation
of heaven, that glorious clime where she
should, ere long, meet those from whom
’twas “more than death to part.”
“ Dearest Lucy,” said Clarence, as they
stood gazing on the summer flowers, “you
are better, love. May not our heavenly
Father yet spare you to me—to your mother—
to cousin Ellen —to happiness?”
“Ah, Clarence, do not speak of this. It
will only end in deeper bitterness. I must
go—and, Claience, you must not mourn when
I exchange even this bright world for the
Paradise of Immortality.”
Clarence could not answer. He-pressed
her hand, and drew her closer to his throb
bing heart, and she resumed, pointing to a
hrght cluster of amaranth—“ See there, Cla
rence, is the cTTih l ein of the life and the joys
to which lam hastening.” * ‘•* * Three
weeks had passed. It was again the even
ing of the Sabbath. I stood by the couch of
Lucy May. Her mother and Ellen sat on
either side, and Clarence Hamilton supporte I
oh a pillow in his arms the head of the fair
gill. Disease had taken the citadel, and we
awaited its surrender to Death.
The man cf God. her pastor from child
hood, now entered the room, and Lucy greet
ed him affectionately: and when he said, “Is
it well with thee, my daughter —is it well
with thy soul)” she answered in clear ami
sweetly confiding tons of voice, “It is well ’
Blessed Redeemer, thou art my only trust.”
Clarence now bent his head close to the
face of Lucy, and whispered in her car, but
so distinctly that we all heard:
“ Lucy, since you may not he mine in life,
oh! dearest, be mine in death : let me follow
you to the grave as my wedded wife, and 1