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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
VI, C. RICHARDS, Editor,
©righted Poetrji.
For the Soutliern Literary Gazette.
LINES TO A BELOVED VOICE.
BT CAROLINE HOWARD.
Speak it once more, once more, in accents 90ft,
Let the delicious music reach mine ear;
Tell me iu truthful murmurs oft and oft,
That I am dear.
Teach me the spell thalt clings around a word,
Teach to my lips the melody of thine,
And let the spoken name most often heard,
Be mine, be mine.
Why in the still and fading twilight hour,
When lone and tender musings fill th-e breast,
Why does thy voice, with its peculiar power,
Still my unrest 1
Why does the memory of thy faintest tone
In the deep midnight come upon my soul,
And cheer the passing hours so sad and lone,
As n they roll 1
Oh ! if my passions overflow their bound,
And pride, or hate, or anger, call for blame,
Do thou with earnest, mild, rebuking sound
But breathe my name.
But show the better way by tliee approved,
Bid me control my erring, wayward will,
And at the chiding of that voice beloved,
All shall be still.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
CANZONETTE.
There ever ia a form, a face,
Os maiden beauty in my dreams.
When in the East Aurora bright
Unbars the golden gates of morn,
And pours a flood of glorious light
O’er sky, sea, mountain, vale and lawn —
A beauteous form, of matchless grace,
First in my heart e’er gains a place!
Forth as my hurried steps I wend.
To mingle in the common crowd —
To meet with mean and selfish men,
And laugh to scorn the money-proud—
Remembrance of that lovely form
ritill thrills my heart with feelings warm.
And while the “ dusty page” I turn,
Os noble Genius—gift divine!
Where “ thoughts that breathe, and words that
burn,”
With dreams of fame inspire my mind —
Soft o’er the page a picture steals.
And all ha ■ witching charms reveals!
With cheerfulness, assumed, at eve,
As in the careless throng I move,
And, tor awhile, fond Hope believe
That Life, tho’ dark, may happy prove—
Her sweetly smiling face I sec —
Oh! may it ever smile on me!
While, if to halls of joyous sound,
Where “ breathe soft dulcet symphonies,”
As in the graceful dance around
Each beauteous one looks sweet replies —
None in my heart e’er gains a place
But her dear form of matchless grace !
And when at night I fain would claim
Relief from sorrow in repose,
In prayer I breathe her sacred name,
And dream, ere Sleep my eyelids close,
That, at my side, with tenderness,
Her lips requiting love confess!
ALTON.
For the Southern Literary <3azette.
L’INCONNUE,
nr JACQUES JOURNOT.
Oft times there glideth through my dreams,
Lighting them with silvery gleams —
A presence of diviner grace
Than artist’s hand may ever trace.
It cometh in the twilight hour —
At midnight deep I feel its power ;
Lark eyes gaze on me at the dawn,
Through night’s dark curtains half withdrawn;
At noon-tide, on the crowded street,
The same bright glances oft I meet;
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART.
One glimpse I catch, but all in vain
I seek their witching light again.
Who art thou, haunter of my path,
That such a power thy presence hath *1
Thou author of my soul’s unrest,
V by make me only almost blest*?
Why mock me with a gleam of light,
Then pass away and leave it night *?
Who e'er thou art, thee I adore!
Be U lnconnue to me no more!
Popnlar falto.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE CHURCH
OF—
THE GLASS OF WATER.
FROM THE FRENCH OF S. HENRI BERTHOUD.
On a sultry evening of the year 1815, the
old curate of San Pietro, a village a few
leagues from Seville, returned home, quite
fatigued, to his humble dwelling, where the
Signora Margarita, his worthy and septagena
rian house-keeper, expected his return. —
However much one is accustomed to see
misery among the Spaniards, at the same time,
no one could help remarking the penury
which reigned in the house of the good priest.
Donna Margarita had just prepared, for the
supper of her master, a sufficiently small
plate of ollapodrida, which, to say the truth,
in spite of the sauce and the pompous name
of the ragout, was only the remains of the
dinner seasoned and disguised with the ut
most possible care and ingenuity. The cu.
rate inhaled the savour of the enticing dish,
and said :
■“ God be praised, Margarita! Here is an
ollapodrida, which brings the water to the
mouth.” Then turning round: “By San
Pietro, my comrade, thou must recite more
than one chapelet of thanks for finding such
a supper at thy host’s table.”
At this word host, Margarita raised her
eyes, and saw that the curate had brought
with him a stranger. The countenance of
the house-keeper became suddenly discompo
sed, and assumed a strange expression of an
ger and disappointment. The look which
she cast on the stranger shone like a flash,
and reflected itself upon the curate, who
looked downwards and said, in a low voice,
with the timidity of a child, who fears the
admonition of his father:
“Bah! when there is enough for two,
there is always for three. And thou wouldst
have been unwilling that I should permit a
Christian to die of hunger, who has not tasted
food for two days.”
“ Holy Virgin!—a Christian I He is rath
<er a brigand !” And she left the apartment,
muttering these words.
The guest of the curate, during this scene,
remained standing and immovable near the
threshold of the door. He was a man of high
stature, clothed in rags, covered with mud,
ami whose black hair, sparkling eyes, and
long carabine, inspired hut a very moderate
interest, and suppositions little reassuring.
“ Must I go away ?” said he.
The curate replied, with an emphatic ges
ture:
“ He who takes shelter under my roof, shall
never be driven away, and shall never be un
welcome. Put aside your carabine, let us
say the Benedicite , and to table.*’
“I never quit my carabine. As says the
Castillanian proverb, two friends make one.
My carabine is my best friend; I shall keep
it between my knees; for, if you wish me to
remain your guest, and politely permit me to.
go away when I desire, there are others who
think to make me go away against my w ill,
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, JANUARY 27, 1840.
and, perhaps, with my feet foremost. Now
come, to your health, and let us eat.”
The curate of San Pietro was certainly a
man of good appetite; but he remained in a
state of astonishment before the voracity of
the stranger, who, not content with regaling
his nostrils, chose rather to swallow the olla
podrida almost entire, emptied the leathern
bottle, and left nothing of an enormous loaf
which weighed ten pounds. Whilst he ate
so voraciously, he threw around him unquiet
looks, started at the most trifling noise, and,
the wind having suddenly shut a door vio
lently, he seized his carabine, as if prepared
to sell his life dearly. Being restored from
this sudden alarm, he re-seated himself at ta
ble, and recommenced his repast.
’“At present,” said he, with his mouth
full, “you must fill up the measure of your
kindness to me. lam wounded in the thigh,
and it is now eight days since my wound has
been dressed. Give me some old rags, and I
shall then disembarrass you of any further
trouble with me.”
“I do not seek to disembarrass myself of
you,” replied the curate, whose guest, not
withstanding the state of alarm in which he
was, had found means to interest him by his
lively discourse. “lam a bit of a surgeon,
and you shall have no inexpert village barber
to dress your wounds—neither will you have
insufficient nor unclean linen. You shall
see.”
Saying that, he took from his cabinet an
instrument case, raised his sleeves, and pre
pared himself to perform the duties of a sur
geon. The wound of the stranger was deep;
a ball had traversed the thigh of the unfortu
nate man, and it would require superhuman
force and courage to enable him to resume his
journey.
“You will not be able to continue your
route, to-day,” said the curate, after examin
ing the wound with the satisfaction of an
amateur artist. “You must pass the night
here; a night of repose will repair your
strength, diminish the inflammation, and allow
the swelling to abate.”
“I must set out immediately,” abruptly in
terposed the stranger. “Thereare those who
expect me,” added he, with a painful sigh;
“ and there are those who seek me,” said he,
with a bitter smile. “ Let us see; have you
finished your dressing ? Good ! lam now at
my ease, and as nimble as if I had no wound.
Give me a loaf —pay yourself for your hos
pitality with this piece of gold, and adieu.”
The curate rejected the coin with displea
sure.
“ I am not an inn-keeper, and I do not sell
my hospitality.*’
“As you please, and pardon. Adieu, my
host.”
Saying that, the stranger took the loaf
which Margarita, with sour looks, had
brought, at the order of her master; and soon
the tall figure of the stianger disappeared in
the foliage of the wood which surrounded
the house, or rather hut, of the curate.
An hour afterwards, a sharp discharge of
musketry was heard : the stranger reappeared,
bleeding, wounded in the breast, and pale
like one dying.
“Hold!” said he, in presenting to the cu
rate some pieces of gold. “Mv children —
in the ravine—near the little liver!”
He fell; the Spanish Gendarmes entered,
carabine in hand, and experienced no resist
ance on the part of the wounded, whom they
bound with cords very tightly; after which,
they permitted the curate to dress the large
recent wound of the unfortunate. But, in
spite of all his remonstrances against the
danger of carrying away a. man so danger-
TOLUME I.—flfMBER 37.
ously wounded, they, nevertheless, placed
their prisoner upon a rough cart.
“Bah! bah!” said they; “let him die of
that or the cord —his end is not the less cer
tain. It is the famous brigand Jose !”
Jose thanked the curate by a slight incli
nation of the head; he then demanded a
glass of water, and, as the- curate leant to
wards him to approach the glass to his lips—
“ You understand 1” said he, with a dying
voice.
Tile curate answered him by a sign of in
telligence.
As soon as the party was out of sight, the
old curate, notwithstanding the remonstrances
of Margarita, who largely represented to him
the dangers and uselessness of going from
home so late at night, traversed a part of the
wood, directed his steps towards the ravine,
and found there the dead body of a woman,
killed, without doubt, by a stray ball of the
Gendarmes, with an infant at her breast, and
a little boy, of four years old, who was pull
ing the arm of his mother in order to awaken
her, for he thought she was asleep.
You can judge of the surprise of Margari
ta, when she saw the curate return with two
infants.
“ Saints of Paradise! What do you in
tend to do with these children, sir—and at
night, too 1 We have hardly wherewithal to
live upon, and you bring me two children!
Shall I have to go and beg, from door to door,
for you and for them 1 And who are these
children 1 The sons of a vagabond, of a
Bohemian, of a brigand, or, perhaps, worse *
I am sure that they are not even baptized.”
At this moment, the young infant began to
cry.
“ And what are you going to do, sir, in or
der to nourish this infant T For we have not
the means of paying for a nurse. We shall
have to bring it up with milk-food, and you
do not know what bad nights that will give
me. As for you, you wifi not sleep the less
at your ease. Holy Virgin! He does not
appear older than six months! Happily, I
have a little milk near me, and I have only to
warm it.”
And, forgetting her discontent, she took
the child from the arms of the curate, fondled
it and kissed it; and, stooping near the fire,
whilst she caressed the infant with one hand,
with the other she stirred the embers of the
charcoal, and warmed a cup full of milk-food.
As soon as the younger child was satisfied,
put to bed, and lulled asleep, the other had
his turn, also. And, whilst Margarita made
his supper, undressed him, and prepared a
sort of provisional bed, with the aid of the
mantle of the good old man rela
ted to his house-keeper where and how he
had found the children, and in what manner
they had been bequeathed to him.
“That is just and good,” replied Margari
ta; “but the difficulty is to know how we
are to nourish them and us 1”
The curate opened the Bible, and read,
with a loud voice :
“ Whosoever shall give to drink unto one
of these little ones a cup of cold water, only
in the name of a disciple, verily, I say uto
you, he shall in no wise lose his reward.”
“Amen!” responded Margarita.
The next day, the curate presided at the
interment of the body of the woman found
near the ravine, and recited for her the pray
ers for the dead.
Twelve years afterwards, the curate of San
Pietro, then not less than 70 years of age,
was warming himself in the sun before the
door of his dwelling. It was winter, and it
was the first time; during two days, that a
rav of the sun had shown itself across the