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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