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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE: c. RICHARDS, EDITOR* ©rtginctl JjJoctnj. For the Southern Literary Gazette. the lay of the exile. ul II ON . B . F . POUTER. Far from his own lov’d home To bitter cares a prey, .1 saw a lonely wand’rer roam, And thus his plaintive lay— My home ! my dear lov’d home! Thy well,known haunts I see ; My soul on hope’s enraptured wing Flies flutt’ring back to thee. “When morning's roseate blush Glows on the bright’ning east— \Y r hen ev’ning's golden tinctur’d flush Streams o’er the mountain's breast — My home ! my dear lov’d home ! Thy blest retreat I see ; And soaring on impellant wing My soul returns to thee. I see the oft-trod path AVind through the leafy grove ; I hear the cheerful-hearted laugh Rise from the group I love : My home ! my dear lov’d home ! How pants my soul for thee! Once more I press the bright-ey’d band That climb’d the wand’rer’s knee. I see the faithful wife Amidst the infant throng, Break the white loaf, with equal hand, The clamorous crowd among. My home ! m3’ dear lov’d home ! Thy hallowed scenes I see ; My soul would fold her tired wings, And rest once more with thee. The storm-tost mariner Looks to the glowing lee, And hope transforms the sun-lit clouds To islands in the sea. Thus home, m3’ dear lov’d home ! Whene’er I roam from thee, la ev’er3’ scene that greets the view, Thy woodland heights I see. For the Southern Literary Gazette. A TRIBUTE POEM. INSCRIBED TO MRS. M. W. B*****. An easier task, fair lady, might have been By thee demanded, than a tribute song— From one who never in his life hath seen The famed Parnassus ; but among the throng Os eager pilgrims hath been ever found, la search of that inspired mountain bound. A lady’s will was ever my command ; And if, perchance, that lady be a friend— I’d serve her with my head, my heart, my hand, And my best zeal I would for her expend: For man3 r years I’ve counted thee as such — I’ve shared tin’ friendship and esteem’d it much. An 1 so I shall essay to weave a rhyme, For thee, since that is all thy claim: Oh that I could bequeath to future Time, In all-enduring verse, thy cherished name ; But now I only ask that thou'lt prolong, For friendship’s sake, the memory of my song! Twas in thy happy girlhood that I first Beheld the sunshine of thy pleasant face, And ever since within my heart I’ve nursed The memory of thy witchery and grace: So I may claim the right of other days— To link thy virtues with my humble lays. Thou art no more a joyous-hearted girl — Whose laugh rings out like merry hell.’ at eve ; With whom the breezes toy and toss her curls, And on her checks their roseate kisses leave: But tho’ thou art a matron now —I know — * by feelings pure and fresh as ever flow. And to m3 r greeting they will quick respond, And while I thus remind thee of the past, Thy heart will turn with recollections fond To da3’s that flew as jo3’ou?ly as fast; And thou wilt live the pleasant hours once more, V inch were so full of happiness before. Aet we will bid those early scenes adieu, And to the Future look with hopeful e3 _ es; F or in the Past there's nothing strange or new — A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART. We hope not of a season long gone by: Our wishes grasp the Future—in its scope We find the food for Fancy and for Hope ! AVhat shall f wish for thee, my early friend, To glad thy Future, and to make it bright 1 With the smooth tissue of thy life to blend, And shed athwart its paths a cheering light? Shall it be wealth—health —love or fame 1 Oh no! I’d crave a boon of humbler name. These might afford thee transitory’joy, And fill Life’s chalice to its very brim, But these are treasures subject to alloy, And with the using perish or grow dim. They pass away as dew the sun exhales— They wither, as the flower at noon-tide pales. What boon then shall I ask of Heaven for thee, Since Earth’s best gifts must quickly have sur cease 1 I pray that on thy hea.t continually There may descend the dew of God’s sweet peace — So shall thy life be blessed and serene— And joy within thy soul be ever green! Athens, Dec. 1848. W. C. R. popular £alco. THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM. A TRAVELER S TALE.* BY WASHINGTON IRVING. He that supper for is (light, He lyes full cold, I trov, this night! Y estreen to chamber I him led, This night Gray-Steel has made his bed. On the summit of one of the heights of the Odenwald, a wild and romantic tract of Up per Germany, that lies not far from the con tinence of the Main and the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since, the Castle of the Baron Von Landshort. It is now quite fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech trees and dark firs; above which, how ever, its old watch-tower may still be seen struggling, like the former possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head,* and look down upon the neighboring country. The Baron was a dry branch of the great family of Katzenellenbogen,f and inherited the relics of the property, and all the pride of his ancestors. Though the warlike dispo sition of his predecessors had much impaired the family possessions, yet the Baron still en deavored to keep up some show of former state. The times were peaceable, and the German nobles, in general, had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, perched like eagles’ nests among the mountains, and had built more convenient residences in the val leys : still the Baron remained proudly drawn up in his little fortress, cherishing, with he reditary inveteracy, all the old family feuds; so that he was on ill terms with some of his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes that had happened between their great-great-grand fathers. The Baron had hut one child, a daughter; hut nature, when she grants hut one child, always compensates by making it a prodigy; and so it was with the daughter of the Baron. All the nurses, gossips, and country cousins, assured her father that she had not her equal for beauty in all Germany; and who should know’ better than they ? * She had, moreover, been brought up with great care under the superintendence of two maiden aunts, who had spent some years of their early life at one of the little German courts, and were skilled in all the branches of knowledge ne cessary to the education of a fine lady. Un der their instructions, she became a miracle of accomplishments. By the time she was eighteen, she could embroider to admiration, and had worked whole histories of the saints in tapestry, with such stiength of expression in their countenances, that they looked like so many souls in purgatory. She could read without great difficulty, and had spelled her way through several church legends, and al *Thc erudite reader, well versed in good-for-no thing lore, will perceive that the above Tale must have been suggested to the old Swiss by a little French anecdote, a circumstance said to have taken place at Paris. t i.e. Cat’s Elbow. The name of a family of those parts, very powerful in former times. The ap pellation. we are told, was given in compliment to a peerless dame of the family, celebrated for hor fine arm. ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2, ISIS. most all the chlvalric wonders of the Hclden buch. She had even made considerable pro ficiency in writing: could sign her own name without missing a letter, and so legibly that her aunts could read it without spectacles.— She excelled in making little elegant good for-nothing lady-like nicknacksoi all kinds: was veised in the most abstruse dancing of the day; played a number of airs on the harp and guitar; and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnielieders by heart. Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and coquettes in their younger days, were admi rably calculated to be vigilant guardians and strict censors of the conduct of their niece ; for there is no duenna so rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a superannuated co quette. She was rarely suffered out of their sight: never went beyond the domains of the castle, unless well attended, or rather well watched; had continual lectures read to her about strict decorum and implicit obedience ; and, as to the men—pah !—she was taught to hold them at such a distance, and in such ab solute distrust, that, unless properly author ized, she would not have cast a glance upon the handsomest cavalier in the world ; no, not if lie were even dying at her feet. The good effects of this system were won derfully apparent. The young lady was a pattern of docility and correctness. While others were wasting their sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable to be plucked and thrown aside by every hand; she was coyly blooming into fresh and lovely woman hood under the protection of those immacu late spinsters, like a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian thorns. Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, and vaunted that though all the other young la dies in the world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of Xatzenellenbogen. But, however scantily the Baron Von Land short might he provided with children, his household was by no means a small one; for Providence had enriched him with abundance of poor reflations. They, one ami all, posses sed the Affectionate disposition common to humble relatives: were wonderfully attached to the Baron, and took every possible occa sion to come in swarms and enliven the cas tle. All family festivals were commemorated by these good people at the Baron’s expense; and when they were filled with good cheer, they would declare that there was nothing on earth so delightful as these family meetings, these jubilees of the heart. The Baron, though a small man, had a large soul, and it swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness ot being the greatest man in the little world about him. He loved to tell long stories about the stark old warriors whose portraits looked grimly down from the walls around, and he found no listeners equal to those who fed at his expense. He was much given to the marvellous, and a firm be liever in all those supernatural tales with which every mountain and valley in Germa ny abounds. The faith of his guests exceed ed even his own: they listened to every tale of wonder with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to he astonished, even though re peated for the hundredth time. Thus lived the Baron Von Landshort, the oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his little terri tory, and happy, above all things, in the per suasion that he was the wisest man of the age. At the time of which my story treats, there was a great family gathering at the castle, on an affair of the utmost importance: it was to receive the destined bridegroom of the Baron’s daughter. A negotiation had been carried on between the father and an old nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their houses by the marriage of their children. The pre liminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. The young people were betrothed without seeing each other; and the time was appointed for the marriage ceremony. The young Count Von Altenburg had been re called from the army for the purpose, and was actually on his way to the Baron's to re ceive his bride. Missives had even been re ceived from him, from Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, mentioning the day and hour when he might be expected to arrive. The castle was in a tumult of preparation *o give him a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been decked out with uncommon care. The two aunts had superintended her toilet, and quarreled the whole morning about VOLUME I.—NUMBER 30. every article of her dress. The young lady had taken advantage of their contest to fol low the bent of her own taste; and fortunate ly it was a good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bridegroom could desire; and the flutter of expectation heightened the lustre of her charms. The suilusions that mantled her face and neck, the gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was going on in her little heart. The aunts were continually hovering around her ; for maiden aunts are apt to take great interest in affairs of this nature. They were giving her a world of staid counsel how to deport herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive the expected lover. The Baron was no less busied in prepara tions. He had, in truth, nothing exactly to do; but lie was naturally a fuming, bustling little man, and could not remain passive when all the world was in a hurry. He worried from top to bottom of the castle with an air of infinite anxiety ; he continually called the servants from their work to exhort them to be diligent; and buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless and importunate as a blue-bottle ily on a warm summer’s day. In the meantime, the fatted calf had been killed; the forests had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen; the kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the cellars had yielded up whole oceans of Rhcin-wein and Ferne-wein; and even the great Heidelburg tun had been laid under contribution. Everything was ready to receive the distinguished guest with Saus und Brans in the true spirit of German hospitality—but the guest delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled after hour.— The sun, that had poured his downward rays upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, now just gleamed along the summits of the moun tains. The Baron mounted the highest tow er, and strained his eyes in hopes of catching 1 a distant sight of the count and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them ; the sound of horns came floating from the valley, pro longed by the mountain echoes. A number of horsemen were seen far below, slowly ad vancing along the road; but when they had nearly reached the foot of the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different direction. — The last ray of sunshine departed—the bats began to flit by in the twilight—the road grew dimmer and dimmer to the view; and nothing appeared stirring in it, but now and then a peasant lagging homeward from his labor. While the old castle of Landshort was in ibis state of perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting in a different part of the Odenwald. The young Count Von Altenburg was tran quilly pursuing his route in that sober jog trot way, in which a man travels toward mat rimony when his friends have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of courtship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for him, as cer tainly as a dinner at the end of his journey, lie had encountered, at Wurtzburg, a youth ful companion in arms, with whom he had seen some service on the frontiers; Herman Von Starkenfaust, one of the stoutest hands and worthiest hearts, of German chivalry, who was now returning from the army’. His father's castle was not far distant from the old fortress of Landshort, although an hered itary feud rendered the families hostile, and strangers to each other. In the warm-hearted moment of recogni tion, the young friends related all their past adventures and fortunes,,and the Count gave the whole history of his intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had never seen, but of whose charms he ha l received the most enrapturing descriptions. As the route of the friends lay in the same direction, they agreed to perform the rest of their journey together; and, that they might do it the more leisurely, set off from Wurtz burg at an early hour, the Count having giv en directions for his retinue to follow and overtake him. They beguiled their wayfaring with recol lections of their military scenes and adven tures; but the Count was apt to be a little tedious, now and then, about the reputed charms of his bride, and the felicity that awaited him. In this way they had entered among the mountains of the Odenwald, and were tra versing one of its most lonely and thickly wooded passes. It is well known that the forests of Germany have always been as much infested by robbers as its castles by