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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