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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