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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
IVM. C. RICHARDS, EDITOR.
©riginal JJoetrn.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
COME, ROUSE THEE, DEAR ONE!
BY LEILA CAAIERON.
Come, rouse thee, dear one! let the shadow pass
From off thy brow, where it has lingered long;
Cast from thy manly heart the host of cares,
Which round thy darkened spirit dimly throng.
Yield thee no longer to the Tyrant’s reign,
Too long around thee has he thrown his chain !
Cheer thee, beloved! I would not see thee thus —
Such gloom is all unworthy of the soul
To which my own is wedded, and I fain
Would win thee from it, lest it soon control
Thy noble nature, till thy spirit high
Droops its bright wings, all mournfully to die!
Come, rouse thee, dearest! thou art all too young,
To cherish in thy heart such dark despair ;
What though the clouds now gather round thy path,
Till all is dimmed that once wus bright and fair 1
Still let this lesson calm desponding thought—
Earth has no ill, but with some good ’tis fraught!
it is not well to yield thee thus to grief,
For that which God in wisdom has denied;
Such moods unfit thee for the trials stern,
By which our souls from earth are purified.
They but embitter all that else might be
An augury of future good to thee.
Alas! that one so formed for happiness.
So fitted for the brighter scenes of life,
Should sink beneath accumulated woes,
Till heart and soul with bitterness are rife!
Forgetful that the ways of Providence
Are too mysterious for our mortal sense !
What though to-day thy heaven is overcast 1
To-morrow’s dawn may bring thee brighter skies,
And e’en the ills which now you deprecate
May prove ere long but “ blessings in disguise !”
Theu roue thy energy—awake thy pride—
Too long thy soul to grief has been allied!
Is life all dark before thee l Say not so,
Borne stars are gleaming in thy darkened sky ;
Friends kind and true are round thee, and the gloom
Which shades thy brow, dims many a loving eye!
And hearts are heating sadly for thy sake,
Whose chords should never but to gladness wake !
Then rouse thee, dearest! break the fatal spell,
Which long has bound thee thus in sorrow’? night;
No longer steep thy soul in gloom, but let
Bweet Hope enfold thee in her mantle bright.
Wake to the voice of love and tenderness,
And let thy smiles our loving spirits bless !
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
IDA IMOGEN!
INSCRIBED TO MISS I. I. C.
by “samivel,” of savannah.
Thy love is liko the ivy-green.
Ida Imogen !
Twining only where truth is seen.
Ida Imogen!
For each tender smile discloses
Joy, that in thy heart reposes,
Joy, more sweet than fragrant roses,
Ida Imogen!
And that joy is silent ever,
Ida Imogen!
Like the flow of some still river,
Ida Imogen !
For each heavenly hope comes stealing.
Mingling with each gentle feeling,
Bliss to thee on earth revealing.
Ida Imogen!
In thy lip is kiudness dwelling,
Ida Imogen !
Like a joyous stream ’tis welling,
Ida Imogen !
All around its influence throwing,
Into every heart ’tis flowing,
Like sweet incense upward going.
Ida Imogen!
On thy brow fond hope is stealing,
Ida Imogen!
And thine eye speaks its deep feeling,
Ida Imogen !
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May its brightness greet thee ever,
Even till death thy spirit sever,
Then t’ enjoy that hope forever,
Ida Imogen!
And perchance a lovelight beameth,
Ida Imogen !
Like a star its bright light streameth,
Ida Imogen!
From those eyes it thrills such feeling,
And so much of truth revealing,
That all other hearts thou’rt stealing,
Ida Imogen!
popular Sales.
THE SEXTON'S HERO.
BY COTTON MATHER MILLS, ESQ.
The afternoon sun shed down his glorious
rays on the grassy churchyard, making the
shadow cast by the old yew-tree under which
we sat seem deeper and deeper by the. con
trast. The everlasting hum of myriads of
summer insects made luxurious lullaby.
Os the view that lay beneath our gaze, T
cannot speak adequately. The foreground
was the greystone wall of the vicarage gar
den ; rich in the coloring made by innumera
ble lichens, ferns, ivy of most tender green,
and most delicate tracery, and the vivid scar
let of the crane’s-bill, which found a home in
every nook and crevice,—and at the summit
of that old wall Haunted some unpruned tendrils
of the vine, and long flower-laden branches
of the climbing rose-tree, trained against the
inner side. Beyond, lay meadow-green, and
mountain-grey, and the blue dazzle of More
combe Bay, as it sparkled between us and
the more distant view.
For a while we were silent, living in sight,
and murmuring sound. Then Jeremy took
up our conversation where, suddenly feeling
weariness, as we saw that deep green shad
owy resting-place, we had ceased speaking, a
quarter of an hour before.
It is one of the luxuries of holiday-time
that thoughts are not rudely shaken from us
by outward violence of hurry, and busy im
patience, but fall maturely from our lips in
the sunny leisure of cur days. The stock
may be bad, but the fruit is ripe.
u How would you then define a hero I” I
asked.
There was a long pause, and I had almost
forgotten my question in watching a cloud
shadow floating over the far-away hills, when
Jeremy made answer,
“ My idea of a hero is one who acts up to
the highest idea of duty he has been able to
form, no matter at what sacrifice. I think
that by this definition, we may include all
phases of the character, even to the heroes of
old, whose sole (and to us, low) idea of duty
consisted in personal prowess.”
“ Then you would even admit the military
heroes l” asked I.
“1 would; with a certain kind of pity for
the circumstances which had given them no
higher ideas of duty. Still, if they sacrificed
self to do what they sincerely believed to be
right, I do not think I could deny them the
title of hero.”
“A poor, unchristian heroism, whose man
ifestation consists in injury to others!” 1
said.
We were both startled by a third voice,
“ If I might make so bold, sir,” —and then
the speaker stopped.
It was the sexton, whom, when we first
arrived, we had noticed, as an accessory to
the scene, but whom we had forgotten as
much as though he were as inanimate as one
of the moss-covered head-stones
“If I might be so bold,” said he again,
awaiting leave to speak. Jeremy bowed in
deference to his white, uncovered head. And
so encouraged, he went on.
“What that gentleman” (alluding to my
last speech,) “ has just now said, brings to
my mind one who is dead and gone this many
a year ago. I may-be have not rightly un.
derstood your meaning, gentlemen* but as far
as I could gather it, I think you’d both have
given in to thinking poor Gilbert Dawson a
hero. At any rate,” said he, heaving a long
quivering sigh, “I have reason to think him
so.”
“ Will you take a seat, sir, and tell us
about him I” said Jeremy, standing up until
the old man was seated. I confess I felt im
patient at the interruption.
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, OCTORER 7, 184S.
“It will be forty-five year come Martin
mas,” said the sexton, sitting down on a gras
sy mound at our feet, “ since I had finished
my ’prenticeship, and settled down at Lindal.
You can see Lindal, sir, at evenings and
mornings, across the bay ; a little to the right
of Grange; at least, I used to see it many a
time and oft, afore my sight grew so dark;
and I have spent many a quarter of an hour
a-gazing at it far away, and thinking of the
days I lived there, till the tears came so thick
to my eyes, I could gaze no longer. I shall
never look upon it again, either far-off or
near, but you may see it, both ways, and a
terrible bonny spot it is ; —in my young days,
when I went to settle there, it was full of as
wild a set of young fellows as ever were
clapped on ; all for fighting, poaching, quar
relling, and such like work. I were startled
myself when I first found what a set I were
among, but soon I began to fall into their
ways, and I ended by being as rough a chap
as any on ’em. I’d been there a matter of
two year, and were reckoned, by most, the
cock of the village, when Gilbert Dawson, as
I was speaking of, came to Lindal. He were
about as strapping a chap as I was, (I used to
be six feet high, though now I’m so shrunk
and doubled up,) and, as we were like in the
same trade, (both used to prepare osiers and
wood for the Liverpool coopers, who get a
deal of stuff from the copses round the bay,)
we were thrown together, and took mightily
to each other. I put my best leg foremost to
be equal with Gilbert, for I’d had some school
ing, though since I’d been at Lindal I'd lost
a good part of what l learnt; and 1 kept my
rough ways out of sight for a time, I felt so
ashamed of his getting to know them. But
that did not last long. I began to think he
fancied a girl T dearly loved, but who had al
ways held off from me. Eh ! hut she was a
pretty one in those days! There’s none like
her now. I think I see her going along the
road with her dancing tread, and shaking
back her long yellow curls, to give me, or
any other young fellow, a saucy word; no
Avat.der Gilbert was taken with her, for all
ne"vvas so grave, and she so merry and light.
But I began to think she liked him again ;
and then my blood was all afire. I got to
hate him for everything he did. Afore-time
I had stood by, admiring to see him, how he
leapt, and what a quoiter and cricketer he
was. And now I ground my teeth with ha
tred whene’er he did a thing which caught
Letty’s eye. 1 could read it in her eye that
she liked him, for all she held herself just as
high with him as with all the rest. Lord
God forgive me! how I hated that man.”
He spoke as if the hatred were a thing of
yesterday, so clear within his memory were
shown the actions and feelings of his youth.
And then he dropped his voice, and said,
“Well! I began to look out to pick a quar
rel with him! for my blood was up to fight
him. If I beat him, (and I were a rare boxer
in those days,) I thought Letty would cool
towards him. So one evening at quoits, (I’m
sure I don’t know how or why, but large do
ings grow out of small words,) I fell out with
him, and challenged him to fight. I could
see he were very wroth by his color coming
and going—and as I said before, he were a
fine active young fellow. But all at once he
drew in, and said he would not fight. Such
a yell as the Lindal lads, who were watching
us, set up! I hear it yet; I could na’ but
feel sorry for him, to be so scorned, and I
thought he’d not rightly taken my meaning,
and I’d give him another chance; so I said it
again, and dared him, as plain as words could
speak, to fight out the quarrel. He told me
then, he had no quarrel against me; that he
might have said something to put me up; he
did not know that he had, but that if he had,
he asked pardon ; hut that he would not fight
ro-how.
“I was so full of scorn at his cowardliness,
that I was vexed I’d given him the second
chance, and I joined in the yell that was set
up. twice as bad as before. He stood it out,
his teeth set, and looking very white, and
when we were silent for want of breath, he
said out loud, but in a hoarse voice, quite dif
ferent from his own,
“‘I cannot fight, because I think it is wrong
to quarrel, and use violence.’
“ Then he turned to go away: 1 were so
beside myself with scorn and hate, that I call
ed out.
“ * Tell truth, lad, at least, if thou dare not
fight, ciunnot go and tell a lie about it. Mo
thers moppet is, afraid of a black eye, pretty
YOLUME It—NUMBER 22.
dear. It shannot be hurt, but it munnot tell
lies.*
“ Well, they laughed, but I could not laugh.
It seemed such a thing for a stout young chap
to be a coward, and afraid!
“Before the sun had set, it was talked of
all over Lindal, how I had challenged Gilbert
to fight, and how he’d denied me : and the
folks stood at their doors and looked at him
going up the hill to his home, as if he’d been
a monkey or a foreigner; but no one wished
him good e’en. Such a thing as refusing to
fight had never been heard of afore at Ligdal.
Next day, however, they had found voice.
The men muttered the word ‘coward’ in his
hearing, and kept aloof ; the women tittered
as he passed, and the little impudent lads and
lasses shouted out, ‘How long is it sin thou
turned quakerT ‘Good-bye, Jonathan Broad
brim,’ and such like jests.
“That evening I met him, with Letty by
his side, coming up from the shore. She was
almost crying as I came upon them at the
turn of the lane; and looking up in his face,
as if begging him something. And so she
was; she told me it after. For she did really
like him, and could not abide to hear him
scorned by every one for being a coward; and
she, coy as she was, all but told him that
very night that she loved him, and begged
him not to disgrace himself, but fight me, as
I’d dared him When he still stuck to it he
could not, for that it was wrong, she was so
vexed and mad-like at the way she’d spoken,
and the feelings she’d let out to coax him,
that she said more stinging things about his
being a coward than all the rest put together,
(according to what she told me, sir, after
wards,) and ended by saying she’d never
speak to him again, as long as she lived; —
she did once again though—her blessing was
the last human speech that reached his ear in
his wild death-struggle.
“But much happened afore that time.—
From the day I met them walking, Letty
turned towards me ; I could see a part of it
was to spite Gilbert, for she’d he twice as kind
when he was near, or likely to hear of it;
but by-and-bye, she got to like me for my
own sake, and it was all settled for our mar
riage. Gilbert kept aloof from every one,
and fell into a sad, careless way. His very
gait was changed; his step used to be brisk
and sounding, and now his foot lingered hea
vily on the ground. I used to try and daunt
him with my eye, but he would always meet
my look in a steady, quiet way, for all so
much about him was altered; the lads would
not play with him; and as soon as he found
he was to be slighted by them whenever he
came to quoiting, or cricket, he just left off’
coming.
“ The old clerk was the only one he kept
company with ; or perhaps, rightly to speak,,
the onhp one who would keep company with
him. They got so thick at last, that old Jo
naa would say Gilbert hail Gospel on his side,
and did no more than Gospel told him to do;
but we none of us gave much credit to what
he said, more by token our vicar had a bro
ther, a colonel in the army; and as we threep
ed it many a time to Jorgis, would he set him
self up to know the Gospel better than the
vicar * that would be putting cart afore the
horse, like the French radicals. And if the
vicar had thought quarrelling and fighting
wicked, and again the Bible, would he have
made so much work about all the victories,
that were as plenty as blackberries at that
time of day, and kept the little bell of Lindal
church forever ringing: or would he have
thought so much of ‘my brother the colonel,’
as he was always talking on.
“ After I was married to Letty, I left off*
hating Gilbert. I even kind of pitied him—
he was so scorned and slighted ; and for all
he’d a hold look about him, as if he were not
ashamed, he seemed pining and shrunk. It’s
a wearing thing to be kept at arm’s length
by one’s kind ; and so Gilbert found it, poor
fellow. The little children took to him,
though; they’d be round about him like a
swarm of bees—them as was too young to
know what a coward was, and only felt that
he was ever ready to love and to help them,
and was never loud or cross, however naughty
they might be. After a while we had our
little one too ; such a blesseddarling she was,
and dearly did we love her; Letty in espe
cial, who seemed to get all the thought I used
to think sometimes she wanted, after she had
her baby to care for.
“Ail my kin lived on this side the bay, up
above Kellet. Jane (that’s her that lies bu
ried near yon white rose-tree,) was to be mar-