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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE: HM. C. RICHARDS, EDITOR. ©rigincil JJJortrg. For the Southern Literary Gazette. COMEJSACK! ‘C-omo back ! come back! at stilly morning hour, Wc miss the mellow tones of thy sweet voice Carolling lightly in thy favorite bower: Come back! oh, dear one, make our hearts rejoice! Let us, delighted, watch thy fairy feet, Pressing the dew-clad lawn with careless grace— Give us, once more, thy matin-greetings sweet, And scatter sun-beams from thine angel face ! Come back ! come back! Come back! ah! during noontide's ardent glow, Thy place now empty —thy abandoned chair, Bring up the thoughts of converse sweet and low — The beaming eye—the pensive brow so fair. How the full-swelling heart still fondly lingers O’er each familiar object of thy care! The chords o’er which thy rosy-taper fingers Wandered so lightly—but 1 must forbear ! Come back! come back ! Come back! come back! when evening shades are round thee, Fly not thy thoughts to childhood’s distant home? Oh! when the shafts of fell misfortune wound thee, Think that some kindly spirit whispers, * Come !’ Sad, though resigned, here sits thy tender mother; Others are round her —sons and daughters dear— Still her fond heart is longing for another; That one, the joy—the grief—the hope—the fear! Come back ! come back ! Come back ! we mourn thee at the close of day, When gathering round the bright and blazing hearth; We miss thy pleasant fancy’s cheerful play, And the clear ring of thy contagious mirth. Or when we sing our vesper hymn of praise, For blessings granted, and for sins forgiven, We shrine thee in our high and solemn lays, And breathe thy name in ardent prayers to Heaven ! Come back ! come hack! EREMUS. For the Southern Literary Gazette. A WISH-SONNET. BY WILLIAM C . RICHARDS. Deep in ray heart a wish for thee abides, A kindly wish, the offspring of esteem — That while adown Life’s darkly flowing stream, Thy fragile barque with ceaseless motion glides, It may escape each treacherous rock that hides Its threatening front beneath a surface fair — . And, uuassailed by storms, in safety bear Thee to that haven where no ill betides. But vain is human skill its course to guide, ’Mid the thick dangers that beset Life’s stream, And vainer still, when tossed on Death’s dark tide, No ray of earthly light shall ’round it gleam ! Kind Heaven befriend thee, and thy pilot be, To the blest shores of Immortality ! For the Southern Literary Gazette. LEONILLA. A SERENADE. Sweet Leonilla ! if my song Might win one smile fro*” The worthless strain I would prolong Unceasingly: But in vain I pour my numbers — Thou art wrapped in rosy slumbers ; Not a sigh escapes thy breast— Peaceful, holy is thy rest: Tenderly upon thy pillow Droops thy Hebe head; Kind angels guard thy bed — Leonilla! Dear Leonilla —if thy heart Returned the love of mine, E’en in sleep’t would throb and start At every line! But now I sing to thee in vain— Thy heart wears not th’ electric chain Whereon Love’s fires like lightnings fly, To kindle rapture in thine eye. Cold and (.haste as ocean’s billow Is thy maiden heart: Sadly I depart, Leonilla! EPSILON. A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART. Sketches of Character. For the Southern Literary Gazette. ABRAHAM COWLEY. BY THE EDITOR. The period of English history in which the subject of this sketch flourished, was marked by mighty events, which, while they deeply affected the civil affairs, could not fail to in fluence, to a greater or less extent, the litera ture and taste of the nation. It was not then —as in our day—that authors almost out numbered their readers. They were a select class, and the cultivation of Letters was con fined to the comparatively few. The civil war which resulted in the overthrow of the ancient monarchy, and the erection of a com monwealth, was, for the time, unfavorable to the growth of Literature; and although the Protector realized, in the high national posi tion of England and her acknowledged su premacy abroad, his enthusiastic boast that he would make the name of Englishman more famous than was ever that of Roman, he ad ded nothing to her literary reputation. The reason of this is undoubtedly to be found in Cromwell’s want of inclination for the pur suits of Literature, superadded to the disquie tude of the times. There were, however, at this period, some men whose names still shine out with an unfading lustre —chief among whom are Milton, Dryden, Waller, Butler, Locke, Izaak Walton, Bunyan, Cudworth, Barrow, Tillotson and South —all of whom were contemporaries of Cowley, though in most cases they reached the zenith of their reputation at a later date than he. Cowley was bom in the City of London, in the year 1618. He was the posthumous son of a respectable grocer, and his mother had sufficient influence to obtain his entrance as a King’s scholar into the Westminster School, where he made remarkable progress in clas sical studies, though he complains of his memory as being defective in acquiring the rules of grammar. While at school, and in his sixteenth year, he published a volume of Poems, under the title of Poetical Blossoms. He was possessed of a large ambition, and we find him giving vent to it at a very early pe riod, in the following lines : “ What shall I do to be forever known, And make the age to come my own ?” When only eighteen years of age, he entered at Cambridge University, having been elected a scholar of Trinity College. Here, too, he distinguished himself, and published a pasto ral Comedy, entitled Love’s Riddle. In Latin verse he also excelled, and wrote the Naufra gium Joculare , a Comedy, which was acted by the students of Trinity, before the whole University, and won considerable applause. In the twenty-fifth year of his age, he was ejected from Cambridge on account of his adherence to the King, and being admitted at Oxford, he there wrote a satire under the ti tle of the “Puritan and Papist.” ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 25, ISIS. Subsequently he accompanied the Queen- Mother to France, and for ten years did not return to his native land. During all that pe riod, he was actively employed in the cause of the royal family, for whom he performed several embassies —and was the medium of correspondence between the King and the Queen-Mother. For years he performed the laborious task of decyphering the letters which passed between them. Returning to England in 1656, he was still an agent of royalty, and in some way render ed himself so obnoxious to the ruling powers, that he was arrested, and secured his person al liberty only through the generosity of the celebrated Scarborough, who gave bail for him in the sum of one thousand pounds. At this time he became ostensibly a physician, but shortly after, returned to France, where he remained until the Restoration. Not long after this he published his “Cut ter of Coleman Street,” a satirical drama, in which the excesses of the Cavaliers were shewn up in high colors. This was miscon strued at Court, and may have been one of the reasons why its author was overlooked in the bestowment of rewards under the new regime. That Cowley anticipated some to ken of the royal favor, there can be no doubt. He, however, received none; and without sup posing him to have been mercenary, we can readily conceive that he felt keenly the dis appointment. It gave him such a disaffec tion towards court life, that he retired into the country, and through the interest of the Duke of Buckingham and the Earl of St. Albans, he obtained the lease of a pretty farm at Chertsey —the property of the Queen —which yielded him an income of about three hun dred pounds, and placed him in easy circum stances. This inclination to rural life was, as we have said, the fruit of disappointment in his expectation of royal favor; and it did not prove entirely favorable to his enjoyment.— He spent his time partly in agricultural and partly in literary avocations. Here he com posed his prose essays, which, though not very extensive, and at this day comparatively little known to the general reader, are mark ed by an exceedingly pure and natural style, entitling him to high rank among his contem poraries as a prose writer. It is as a poet that Cowley is best known to our times, and his verse is preserved in every collection of the British Poets—and in its own independent volumes—and thus kept fresh in the recollection of thousands of read ers who wish to preserve every important link of that great chain which binds the pres ent era of Poetry to the Elizabethan Age. Our limits will not allow’ us to enter into a closer analysis of the poetry of Cowley. It is not of that order which commands the ad miration of the majority of readers. It is moreover, so marked, and we may say, so marred, with odd conceits, and the structure of his verse is so laborious and ultra-artificial, that his true genius and his vigorous imagi nation are too often overlooked. Moreover, we are inclined to think tliat he lacked alto gether that earnestness which is essential to enduring fame. Mere brilliance and wit, un attended by the conservative power of a high purpose, cannot have an enduring influence over the hearts of men. Cowley wrote from his head, and not from his heart, and even his love poetry is artificial —glittering only as an ice-berg glitters in the radiance of the noon day sun. His Anacreontics have most grace and life likeness about them of all his productions. Some of them sparkle with a fancy that w'e can love as well as admire. His Davideis is VOLUME I.—NUMBER 29. a cumbrous and unfinished poem in the he roic measure. In connection with this brief view of his writings, we have selected a few specimens, of which the first are two of his Anacreontics : GOLD. A mighty pain to love it is, And tis a pain that pain to miss, But of all pain the greatest pain It is to love, but love in vain. Virtue now nor noble blood, Nor wit, by love is understood. Gold alone does passion move ; Gold monopolizes love! A curse on her and on the man Who this traffic first began! A curse on him who found the ore! A curse on him who digg’d the store! A curse on him who did refine it! A curse on him who first did coin it! A curse nil curses else above On him who us’d it first in love! Gold begets in brethren hate; Gold, in families debate ; Gold does friendship separate , Gold does civil wars create. These the smallest harms of it; Gold, alas ! does love beget. THE EPICURE Fill the bowl with rosy wine, Around our temples roses twine, And let us cheerfully a while, Like the wine and roses smile. Crown’d with roses, we contemn Gyges’ wealthy diadem. To-day is ours ; what do wo fear I To-day is ours; we have it here. Let’s treat it kindly, that it may Wish at least with us to stay. Let’s banish business ; banish sorrow ; To the gods belongs to-morrow. The next specimen is an extract from a graceful and imaginative Ode, on the death of his college friend, William Harvey : It was a dismal and a fearful night, Scarce could the morn drive on th’ unwilling light. When sleep, death’s image, loft my troubled breast, By something liker death possest. My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow. And on my soul hung the dull weight Os some intolerable fate. What bell was that 1 Ah me ! too much I know. My sweet companion, and my gentle peer. Why hai t thou left me thus unkindly here. Thy end forever, and my life to moan'? O thou hast left me all alone ! Thy soul and body, when death’s agODy Besieged around thy noble heart, Did not with more reluctance part Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee. My dearest friend! would I had died for thee ! Life and this world henceforth will tedious be. Nor shall I know hereafter what to do, If once my griefs prove tedious too. Silent and sad I walk about all day, As sullen ghosts stalk speechless by Where their hid treasures lie ; Alas, my treasure’s gone! why do I stay 1 He was my friond, the truest friend on earth ; A strong and mighty influence join'd our birth. Nor did we envy the most sounding name By friendship given of old to fame. None but his brethren, he, and sisters, knew, Whom the kind youth preferred to me ; And ev’n in that we did agree, For much above myself I loved them too. Say, for you saw us, ye immortal lights, How oft unwearied have we spent the nights T Till the Ledaoan stars, so famed for love, Wonder’d at us from above. We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine, But search of deep philosophy, Wit, eloquence, and poetry: Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were thine ‘ Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, Have ye not seen us walking every day *1 Was there a tree about, which did not know The love betwixt us two 1 Henceforth, ye gentle trees, forever fade ; Or your sad branches thicker join, Aud into darksome shades combine; Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid. A brief passage, quoted by Johnson as a specimen of his fiction, must close our ex tracts. It is a description of the Angel Ga briel : “He took for skin a cloud most soft snd bright, That e’er the mid-day sun pierced thro’ with li£ufc ; Upon his cheek, a lively Mush he spread— Washed from the morning beauties’ deepest red; An harmless fluttering meteor shone for hair, And fell adown his shoulders with loose care ; Me cuts out a silk mantle from the skies, Where the most sprightly azure pleased the ey osr; This ho with starry vapours sprinkles all, Took in their prime, ere they grow ripe and fall; Os anew rainbow, ere it fret or fade. The choicest pieee cut out, a scarf is made ” Cowley did not find in his retirement that ; perfect peace and enjoyment which he antici pated. He complains, in a letter to his friend