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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART.
ts jf, C. RICHARDS, Editor*
Original s)odrjL
F or the Son thorn Literary Gazette.
THE TROUVERE’S ROSE,
One sunny day in Angouleme,
While with an open book on knee,
I tat and mused of love, there came
A servant of my lord to me.
.Sir poet—spake he sans delay,
VJY siegneur would thy skill essay.
Then i went with him willingly.
Tviy lord was in the castle court.
Quoth lie —‘My lady here will hide,
And yon unseemly wall and moat,
To do her pleasure, I would hide
With roses fair, for these have won
IL r lovo of all.’ It shall be done
To please my lady, I replied.
I chose to climb the eastern wall,
A vine whereof the blossoms were
In size tho chiefest of them all,
That from below they might appear
Among their leaves; yet void of scent
Because that thither none e’er went.
.Save birds that wanton in the air.
And for the moat a thorny hedge,
But with gay flowers overspread,
; set along the nearer edge,
Tim.. il unwary hand were led
To pluck the bloom, the thorrs might be
Sufficient guard, lest suddenly
The slime should swallow up his tread.
Well pleased, ray lord surveyed my ear •,
Then smiling courteously—’ Meseems,’
lie said, ‘a lady debonnaire,
When freshly wakened from her dreams,
rffiie seeks her easement, there should find
The flower most she loves entwined.
Now choose me that which sweetest seems.
Then at tny lady’s casement low,
To welcome her and dewy dry,
I taught an humble rose to blow,
Which was not large, nor tall, nor gay,
As choicer bloom, but passing sweet,
So that, methinks, the very feet
That bruised it, fragrant went away.
And when my lady came in slate,
All other flowers passed she by,
And coming to her casement straight,
Led thither by that perfume high,
‘ This, truly,’ cried she, ‘love I best!’
And my meek flower on her breast
Beneath a jewelled brooch did lie.
This action pleased me, and I said,
In courtly phrase of troubadour,
Aye, lady mine, the highest head
Is not the dearest loved, be sure —
Nor blooming cheek, nor snowy breast,
Can win a true heart, unpossessed
Os sweetnesses that go before.
For I was thinking all the while
Os mine own rose, whose soft brown eyes
Os earking care my days beguile.
And well 1 know, though these despise
Her sweetness as unworth award,
Upon his breast a wiser Lord
Will bear her fragrance to his skies.
Aiken, S. C. J. M. Leg are.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
“LET NOT YOUR HEART BE TROUBLED.
NEITHER LET IT BE AFRAID.”
15 Y LEILA CAMERON.
“Wby art thou down-cast, weary child of earth 1
Why is thy spirit clouded o’er with woe 1
Why in thy soul must bitterness have birth.
And often down thy cheek the tear-drop flow ?
Hast thou forgotten Him who gently said,
” Let not thy heart be troubled or afraid T’
Is this the peace our Saviour left with thee.
When he departed for his home on high 1
Has he not said, “ Where 1 am ye shall be—
-1 go to seek your mansion in tbo sky 1”
Let not thy heart be troubled,” till he come,
And take thee with him to that heavenly home !
mortal! lift thy drooping eyes to where
That Saviour sits enthroned in light divine ;
Gaboon the glories that vurround ILm there,
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JANUARY 20, ISIS.
And humbly bow before his holy shrine!
He has not left his children comfortless—
His promise still remains tlaeir haerts to bless!
“ Let not thy heart be troubled,” hear him say,
For he that loveth me, him will I love ;
And though a little while I go away,
1 will return, and take thee up above!
Then weep no longer, child of earth, for know
Thy Saviour bids thy anguish cease to flow.
Saviour divine! on thee we humbly rest—
Send us the comforter our griefs to cure ;
Give us a refuge in thy pitying breast,
Shed o’er our souls the beams of mercy pure!
Then shall our hearts no longer know a fear ;
Our souls no anguish, and our eyes no tear!
Sparta, Jan. 9th, 1848.
Popular (Talcs.
THE DARK LADY,
BY AIRS. S. C. lIALL.
People find it easy enough to laugh at
“spirit-stories” in broad day-light, when the
sunbeams dance upon the grass, and the deep
est forest glades are spotted and checkered
only by the tender shadows of leafv trees;
when the ragged castle, that looked so mys
terious and so stern in the looming night,
seems suited for a lady’s bower; when the
rustling waterfall sparkles in diamond show
ers, and the hum of bee and song of bird, tune
the thoughts to hopes of life and happiness:
people may laugh at ghosts, then, if they
like, but as for me, I never could merely smile
at the records of these shadowy visitors. I
have large faith in things supernatural, and
cannot disbelieve solely on the ground that I
i lack such evidences as are supplied by mv
i senses ; lor they, in truth, sustain by palpa
j hie proofs so few of the many marvels by
1 which we are surrounded, that I would rather
j object to them altogether as witnesses, than
j abide the issue entirely as they suggest.
My groat grandmother was a native of the
| canton of Berne; and at the advanced age of
j ninety, her memory of “the Jong ago” was
’ as active as it could have been at fifteen; she
looked as if she had just stepped out of a
: piece of tapestry belonging to a past age. but
with warm sympathies for the present. Her
English, when she became excited, was very
j curious—a mingling of French, certainly not
I Parisian, with here and there scraps of Ger
i man done in English, literally—so that her
{observations were, at times, remarkable for
I their strength. “The mountains,” she would
| say, “in her country, went high, high up,
until they could look into heaven, and hear
‘Godin the storm.” She never thoroughly
: comprehended the real beauty of England :
1 but spoke with contempt of the flatness of
! our island—calling our mountains “inequali
ties”—nothing more—holding our agricul
ture “cheap,” saying that the land tilled it
i self, leaving man nothing to do. She would
| sing the most amusing patois songs, and tell
stories from morning till night, more especial
ly spirit-stories; but the old lady would not
tell a tale of that character a second time to
ian unbeliever; such things, she would say,
! “are not for make-laugh.” One in particu-
I lar. I remember, always excited great interest
i in her young listeners, from its mingling with
! the real and the romantic: but it can never be
j told as she told it; there was so much of the
j picturesque about the old lady—so much to
] admire in the curious carving of her ebony
j cane, in the beauty of her point lace, the size
and weight of her long, ugly ear-rings, the
fashion of her solid silk gown, the singulari
ty of her buckled shoes, her dark-brown
wrinkled face, every wrinkle an expression,
j her broad, thoughtful brow, beneath which
glittered her bright blue eyes—bright, when
even her eye-lashes were white with years.
All these peculiarities gave impressive effect
to her words.
“In my young time.” she told us, “I spent
i many happy hours with Amelie de Rohean,
jin her uncle’s castle, lie was a fine man--
: much size, stern, and dark, and full of noise
j—a strong man, no fear—he had a great
I heart, and a big head.
The castle was situated in the midst of the
most stupendous Alpine scenery, and yet it
was not solitary. There were other dwell
| ings in sight; some very near, but separated
jby a ravine, through which, at all seasons,
a rapid river kept its foaming course. You
do not know what torrents are in this coun
try : your torrents are as babies—ours are
giants. The one I speak of divided the val
ley ; here and there a rock, round which it
sported, or stormed, according to the season.
In two of the defiles, these rocks were of great
value; acting as piers for the support of
bridges, the only means of communication
with our opposite neighbors.
Monsieur, as we al ways called the count,
was, as 1 have told you, a dark, stern, violent
man. All men are wilful, my dear young
ladies,” she would say ; “but Monsieur was
the most wilful: all men are selfish, but lie
was the most selfish: all men are tyrants —”
Here the old lady was invariably interrupted
by her relatives, with “Oh. good Granny!”
and “Oh, fie, dear Granny!” and she would
bridle up a little and fan herself: then con
tinue—“ Yes, my dears, each creature ac
cording to its nature —all men are tyrants;
and l confess that 1 do think a Swiss, whose
mountain inheritance is nearly coeval with
the creation of the mountains, has a right to
be tyrannical; 1 did not intend to blame him
for that; I did not, because I had grown used
to it. Amelie and 1 always stood lip when
he entered the room, and never sat down un
til we were desired. He never bestowed a
loving word or a kind look upon either of us.
We never spoke except when we wem spo
ken to.”
“But when you and Amelie were alone,
dear Granny ?”
“Oil, why, then we did chatter. I suppose:
though then it was iu moderation; for Mon
sieur’s influence chilled us even when he was
not present; and often she would say, ‘lt is
so hard trying to love him, for he will not let
me !’ There is no such beauty now in the
world as Ainelie’s. I can see her as she used
to stand before the richly-carved glass in the
grave oak-panelled dressing-room; her luxu
riant hair combed back from her full, round
brow: the discreet maidenly cap, covering
the back of her head: her brocaded silk,
(which Hie had inherited from her grand
mother,) shaded round the bosom by a modest
ruffle; her black velvet gorget and bracelets,
showing oil to perfection the pearly transpa
rency of her skin. IShe was Iho loveliest of
all creatures, and as good as she was lovely;
it seems hut as yesterday ihnt we were to
gether —but as yesterday ! And yet 1 lived
to see her an old woman : so they called her,
but she never seemed old to me! My own
dear Amelie!” Ninety years had not diied
up the sources of poor Granny’s tears, nor
chilled her heart; and she never spoke of
Amelie without emotion. “Monsieur was
very proud of his niece, because she was part
of himself: she added to his consequence,
she contributed to his enjoyments; she had
grown necessary; she was the one sunbeam
of his house.”
“ Not the one sunbeam, surely, Granny!”
one of us would exclaim . “you were a sun
beam then.”
“I was nothing where Amelie was —notli-
ing but her shadow! The bravest and best
in the country would have rejoiced to be what
I was to her —her chosen friend ; and some
would have perilled their lives for one of the
sweet smiles which played around her uncle,
hut never touched his heart. Monsieur nev
er would suffer people to be happy except in
his way. He had never married, and he de
clared Amelie never should. She had, he
said, as much enjoyment as lie had; she had
a castle with a draw-bridge; she had a forest
for hunting; dogs and horses; servants and
serfs; jewels, gold, and gorgeous dresses; a
guitar and a harpsichord; a parrot —and a
friend 1 And such an uncle! he believed
there was not such another uncle in broad
Europe! For many a long day, Amelie
laughed at this catalogue of advantages, that
is, she laughed when her uncle left the room;
she never laughed before him. In time, the
laugh came not; but in its place, sighs and
tears. Monsieur had a great deal to answer
for. Amelie was not prevented from seeing
the gentry when they came to visit in a for
mal way, and she met many hawking and
hunting; hut she was never permitted to in
vite any one to the castle, nor to accept an
invitation. Monsieur fancied that by shut
ting her lips he closed her heart; and boast
ed such was the advantage of good training,
that Amelie’s mind was fortified against all
such weaknesses, for she had not the least
dread of wandering about the ruined chapel
of the castle, where he himself dared not go
after dusk. This place was dedicated to the
VOLUME I* —NUMBER M.
family ghost—the spirit, which, for many
years, had it entirely at its own disposal. It
was much attached to its quarters, seldom
leaving them, except for the purpose of in
terfering when anything decidedly wrong was
going forward in the castle. ‘La Femme
Noir’ had been seen gliding along the unpro
tected parapet of the bridge, and standing on
a pinnacle, before the late master’s death;
and many tales were told of her, which, in
this age of unbelief, would not he credited.”
“Granny, did you know why your friend
ventured so fearlessly into the ghost's territo
ries!” inquired my cousin.
“I am not come to that,” was the reply :
“and you are one saucy little maid toask what
Ido not choose to tell. Amelie certainly en
tertained no fear of the spirit: ‘La Femme
Noir’ could have had no angry feelings to
wards her. for my friend would wander in the
ruins, taking no note of daylight, or moon
shine, or even darkness. The peasants de
clared their young lady must have walked
over crossed bones, or drank water out of a
raven's skull, or passed nine times round tne
spectre's glass on midsummer,eve. She must
have done all this, if not more: there could
he little doubt that the ‘Femme Noir’ had
initiated her into certain mysteries; for they
heard, at times, voices in low, whispering
converse, and saw the shadows of two persons
cross the old roofless chapel, when ‘Mamsellc’
had passed the foot-bridge alone. Monsieur
gloiied in this fearlessness on the part of his
gentle niece; and more than once, when he
had revellers in the castle, lie sent her forth
at midnight to bring him a hough from a tree
that only grew beside the altar of the old
clmpel; and she did his bidding always as
willingly, though not as rapidly, as he could
desire.
“But certainly Amelie’s courage brought no
calmness. She became pale; her pillow was
often moistened by her tears; her music was
neglected ; she took no pleasure in the chase :
and her chamois, not receiving its usual at
tention, went off to the mountains. She
avoided me —her friend! who would have
died for her; she made no reply to my pray
ers, and did not heed my entreaties. One
morning, when her eyes were fixed upon a
hook, she did not read, and I sat at my em
broidery a lit’le apart, watching the tears
stray over her cheek, until I was blinded by
my own, t heard Monsieur’s heavy tramp ap
proaching through the long gallery; some
books creaked—but the boots of Monsieur 1
—they growled!
“‘Save me, oh, save me!’ she exclaimed
wildly. Before 1 could reply, her uncle
crushed open the door, and stood before us
like an embodied thunderbolt, lie held an
open letter in his hand —his eyes glared, his
nostrils were distended, lie trembled so with
rage that the cabinets and old china shook
again.
“‘Do yen,’ he said, ‘know Charlesle Mat-
Ire V
“ Amelie replied she did.
“‘How did you make acquaintance with
the son of my deadliest foe V
“There was no answer. The question was
repeated. Amelie said she had met him, and
at last confessed that it was in the ruined por
tion of the castle! She threw herself at her
uncle’s feet—she clung to iiis knees; love
taught Imr eloquence. She told him how
deeply Charles regretted the long-standing
feud ; how earnest, and true, and good he was.
Bending low, until her tresses were heaped
upon the floor, she confessed, modestly, but
firmly, that she loved this young man'; that
she would rather sacrifice the wealth of the
world than forget him.
“Monsieur seemed suffocating; he tore off
his lace cravat, and scattered its fragments on
the floor; still she clung to him. At last he
flung her from him; he reproached her with
the bread she had eaten, and heaped odium
upon her mother’s memory! But though
Amelie’s nature was tender and affectionate,
the old spirit of the old race roused within
her: the slight girl arose, and stood erect be
fore the man of storms.
“‘Did you think,’ she said, ‘Decause l
bent to you that I am feeble ? You gave
food to this frame, but you fed not my heart;
you gave me not love, nor tenderness, nor
sympathy: you showed me to your friends
as you would your horse. If you had, by
kindness, sown the seeds of love within my
bosom ; if you had been a father to me in
tenderness, f would have been to vou a
child. I never knew the time when ['did not
tremble at your footstep; but I will do so no