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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE. SCIENCE AND ART.
HM. C. RICHARDS, Editor.
original Poetry.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE MAID OF CHEROKEE.
BY II ON . B . F . PORTER.
Near where Coosa's placid tide
Pours the bright waters to the sea,
(A flower upon the mountain's side,)
Dwells the Maid of Cherokee—
The maid that held the cup for me —
My ros3 r girl of Cherokee.
Far from the world’s ensnaring toils,
Where Fashion spreads her gilded net;
In Nature’s innocence and smiles,
This kind and artless maid I met.
The maid that held the cup forme —
My rosy girl of Cherokee.
The hue of health and grace of youth,
Her form and face alike adorn ;
Her eyes replete with love and truth,
Shine soft as beams of summer morn.
.
The maid that held the cup for me—
My rosy girl of Cherokee.
Her lustrous eyes and morning’s light,
At once unfold their lovely rays ;
’Tis fit such kindred beams unite,
To fill with joy the opening days.
The maid that held the cup for me —
My rosy girl of Cherokee.
And when, at eve, a mellower light,
Floats calmly through the spangled skies,
No twinkling star shines half as bright
As those which sparkle in her eyes :
The maid that held the cup for me —
My rosy girl of Cherokee.
Whether across the dewy lawn,
Or by the spring, her steps I trace—
At noon, or eve, or early dawn—
She seems the goddess of the place. ,
The maid that held the cup for me—
My rosy girl of Cherokee.
In some sequestered vale* like this,
From vanity and envy free,
Diana held her court of bliss,
Like my dear Maid of Cherokee.
The maid that held the cup for me —
My rosy girl of Cherokee.
popular £alcs.
MY FIRST SCHOOL-MISTRESS.
BY MRS. ANN S . STEPHENS.
He hung his head—each noble aim,
And hope and feeling which bad slept
From boyhood’s hour, that instant came
Fresh o’er him, and he wept —he wept!
Blest tears of soul-felt penitence,
Jn whose benign, redeeming flow,
Is felt the first, the only sense,
Os guiltless joy that guilt can know.”
I could not have been more than six years
of age when she died, and yet I remember my
first school-mistress as distinctly as the faces
that passed before me an hour since. She
was a quiet, gentle creature, that won the
love of everything that looked upon her. In
repose, her face was sad, sweet, and full of
thought, but not handsome; though when
Sighted up with a smile, it seemed beautiful
as an angel’s. I was a mere child, but my
heart yearned towards her with a clinging
tenderness whenever she bent those large,
loving eyes on my face, as if she had been
my own mother, or a dear elder sister. When
she laid her small hand on my hair and prais
ed my work, her low voice would send a thrill
of strange pleasure through my veins, and I
returned her care with a love that lingers
round my heart even yet, though years have
swept over her grave, and her name is almost
forgotten.
Miss Bishop had not been among us a fort
night before we knew that she was unhappy.
The color on her delicate cheek was unsteady,
and sometimes far, far too brilliant. There
were times when she would sit and gaze
through the window into the graveyard, with
her large melancholy eyes surcharged with a
strange light, as if she were pondering on the
time when she, also, might lie down in the
cold earth and be at rest. She was not gloomy
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, MARCH 21, 1819.
—far from it; at times she was gay and
child-like as ourselves. On a rainy day,
when the grass was wet, and we were oblig
ed to find amusement within doors, I have
known her to join in our little games with a
mirth as free as that which gushed up from
the lightest heart among us. At such times,
she would sing to us by the hour together,
till the galleries of the old church seemed
alive with bird music. But her cheerfulness
was not constant; it seemed to arise more
from principle and a strong resolution to over
come sorrow, than from a spontaneous im
pulse of the heart.
It is strange what fancies will sometimes
enter the minds of children—how quick they
are to perceive-, and how just are the deduc
tions they will often draw from slight pre
mises. It was not long before the sorrow
which evidently hung over our young mistress
became a speculation and comment in our
piay hours. One morning she came to the
house rather later than usual. We were all
gathered about the door to receive her; and
when she waved her hand in token that we
should take our places, there was a cheerful
strife which should obey the signal first.—
Never do I remember her so beautiful as on
that morning. The clear snow of her fore
head, and that portion of her slender neck,
exposed by her slight dress, mingled in deli
cate contrast with the damask brightness on
her cheek and lips—an expression of content
ment subdued the sometimes painful brillian
cy of her eyes, and with a beautiful smile
beaming over that face in thanks for the offer
ing, she took a half-open white, rose with a
faint blush slumbering in its core, from the
hand of a little girl, and twined it among her
hair, just over the left temple, before taking
her seat. The morning was warm, and all
the doors had been left open to admit a free
circulation of air through the old building.
My seat was near the pulpit, directly opposite
the northern door, which commanded a view
of the highway. I was gazing idly at the
sunshine which lighted up a portion of the
lawn in beautiful contrast with the thick
grass which still lay in the shade, glittering
with rain-drops—for there had been a shower
during the night—when a strange horseman
appeared, galloping along the road. He
checked his horse, and after surveying the
old meeting-house a moment, turned into the
foot-path leading to the southern door.
Seldom have I seen a more lofty carriage
or imposing person, than that of the stranger,
as he rode slowly across the lawn. His face,
at first view, appeared eminently handsome ;
but on a second perusal, a close observer
might have detected something daring and
impetuous, which would have taught him to
suspect imprudence, if not want of principle
in the possessor. He was mounted on a noble
horse, and his dress, though carelessly worn,
was both rich and elegant. He had ridden
close to the door, and was dismounting, when
Miss Bishop looked up. A slight cry burst
from her lips, and starting from her seat, she
turned wildly toward the side door, as if
meditating escape; hut the stranger had
; scarcely set his foot within the building,
when she moved down the aisle, though her
face was deadly pale, and there was a look
of mingled terror and grief in her eyes, The
i stranger advanced to meet her with a quick,
eager step, and put forth his hand. At first
| she seemed about to reject it, and when she
did extend hers, it was tremblingly, and with
evident reluctance. lie retained her hand in
his, and bent forward, as if about to salute
her. She shrunk back, shuddering beneath
his gaze ; and we could see that deep crimson
flush dart over her cheek like the shadow of
a bird Hitting across the sun’s disc. The
stranger dropped her hand, and set his lips
hard together, while she wrung her hands,
and uttered some words, it seemed of entreaty.
He looked hard into her face as she spoke;
but without appearing to heed her appeal, he
! walked a few paces up the aisle, and taking
| olfhis hat, leaned heavily against a pew door
which chanced to be open. His was a bold
countenance! I have seldom looked upon a
forehead so massive and full of intellect. —
Y r et the dark, kindling eye, and haughty lip,
bespoke an untamed will and passions yet
I to be conquered, or to be deeply repented of
|in remorse and in tears As he stood before
1 that timid girl, she shrunk from, and yet
| seemed almost fascinated by the extraordina
ry power of expression that passed over his
face. His dark eyes grew misty and melting
with tenderness as he took her hand again,
reverently between both of his. and pleaded
with her as one pleading for his last hope in
life. We could not hear his words: but
there Mas something in the deep tones of his
voice, and in that air of mingled pride, ener
gy and supplication, which few women could
have resisted. But she did resist, though
even a child could see that the effort was
breaking her heart. Sadly, and in a voice
full of suppressed agony and regret, she an
swered him, her small hands were clasped
imploringly, and her sweet face was lifted to
his with the expression of a tried spirit be
seeching the tempter to depart, and leave her
in peace.
Again he answered her, but now bis voice
trembled, and its deep tones were broken as
they swelled through the hollow building.
When he had done, she spoke again in the
same tone as before, and with the same sad
resolve unmoved from her face. He became
angry at last; his eye kindled, and his heavy
forehead gathered in a frown. She had ex
tended her hand as if to say farewell ; but
he dashed it away, and regardless of her timid
voice, rushed toward the door.
Miss Bishop tottered up the aisle, and sunk
to her chair, trembling all over, and drawing
her breath in quick, painful gasps. We all
started up, ami were about to crowd round
her with useless tears and lamentations, when
the young man came up the aisle again. We
shrunk back around the pulpit stairs, and
watched his motions, like a flock of frighten
ed birds when the hawk is hovering in the
air above them.
“Mary,” he said, bending over her chair,
and speaking in alow, suppressed voice, for
all traces of passion had disappeared from
his sac once again, and for the
last time, I entreat you to take hack the cruel
words you have spoken. They will be the
ruin of us both—for, conceal it as you will,
you cannot have forgotten the past. There
ivas a time ”
“Do not speak it, George Mason, if you
would not break my heart here, and at once
—do not, in mercy, arouse memories that
never will sleep again,” said the poor girl,
rising slowly to her feet, and wringing her
hands, over which tear-drops fell like rain.
“Becalm, Mary, I beseech you. I will
say nothing that ought to pain or terrify you
thus—consent to fulfil the engagement so
cruelly broken off, and here, in this sacred
place, I promise never to stand beside a gam
bling table, or touch another card in my life.
I know that in other things I have sinned
against you, almost beyond forgiveness, but
l will do anything—everything that you can
dictate, to atone for the wrongs done that poor
girl, and I will never, never see her jagain.”
Miss Bishop looked up with a painful
smile, and a faint color spread from her face,
down over her neck and bosom.
“Can you take away the stain which has
been selfishly flung on her pure spirit—can
you gather up the affections of a young heart
when once wickedly lavished, and teach them
to bud and blossom in the bosom which sin
has desolated ? As well might you attempt
to give its perfume back to the withered rose,
or take away the stain from a bruised lily,
when its urn has been broken and trampled
in the dust. Vain man! Go and ask for
giveness of that God, whose lovely work you
have despoiled. With all your pride and
wealth of intellect, you have no power to
make atonement to that one human being,
whom you have led into sin and
She turned from him as the last words died
on her lips, and covering her face, wept as
one who had no comfort left. Tears stood
in that proud man’s eye, and his haughty lip
tremtiled as he gazed upon her. He did not
speak again, but lifted her hand reverently to
his lips, and hastened away.
A week went by, and every day,we could
see that our “young mistress” walked more
feebly up the lawn, and that the color in her
cheek became painfully vivid. She had al
ways been troubled with a slight cough, but
now it often startled us with its frequency
and hollowness. On Saturday, it had been
her habit to give us some little proof of ap
probation—a certificate, sometimes neatly
written, but more frequently ornamented by
a tiny rose—a butterfly or grasshopper, from
her own exquisite pencil. On the Saturday
night in question she had distributed her little
gifts, and it chanced that a simple daisy, most
beautifully colored, fell to me. I had long
bad a strange wish to possess a lock of her
hair, and this night found courage to express
it. As she extended the daisy for my accept
ance, I drew close to her chair, and whisper-
VOLUME I.—NUMBER 45.
“If you please, Miss Bishop, 1 would much
rather have some of your hair—that beauti
ful bright curl that always hangs back of your
car.”
With a gentle smile, she took her scissors
and cut off the curl which I had so long cov
eted. She seemed pleased with my eager
expressions of delight, and holding up the
ringlet allowed it to fail slowly down to my
palm, in a succession of rich glossy rings. I
had the daisy too, and went home a proud
and happy child.
The next Monday was a melancholy day
to us all, for our mistress was ill.
The doctor was afraid that she never would
be well again. We sat down together as
they told us this, and cried as if some great
evil had fallen upon us. We saw her once
again, but it was in the gloom of a death
chamber, and then she was in her old place
again, there in the broad aisle of the meeting
house; but a coflin was her resting place, and
when we gathered about her, weeping and
full of sorrow, she. did not hear the voice of
her little scholars.
Opr mistress was buried back of the old
meeting-house, and very often would the
children she loved so fondly, linger about her
grave. It \Yas a strange fancy,'"but 1 seldom
visited the shady spot without taking with
me the little work-bag which contained her
presents, and that one precious ringlet—her
last gift. I was never afraid to linger about
the resting-places of the dead, and one even
ing the twilight had settled over me as I still
sat by that meekly-made grave. All at once
the sound of a heavy footstep startled me,
and the shadow of a man fell athwart the
grass. I knew him at once, though he was
much paler than formerly, and there was an
expression of suffering on his face that awoke
all my childish sympathy. It was the same
man who had visited our mistress on the week
before she left us. He seemed surprised at
finding a child so near her grave; but when
he saw that I recognized him, he began to
question me about the departed. I told him
all, and he wept like a child, for my presence
was no restraint upon him. After a time, he
took me in his arms and asked me if the de
parted had never given me any present —a
S picture-book or certificate—which I would
part with : he would give me a beautiful piece
of gold for it. 1 thought of my precious
ringlet, and there was a struggle in my young
heart.
“ Did you love my mistress ?” I enquired,
for it seemed wrong to give up the beautiful
curl to any one who had not loved her as well
as l had done.
“ Love her!—oh, God, did I not!” he ex
claimed, covering his face and bursting into
tears —such tears as can only be wrung from
a strong, proud man.
“Don’t cry!—don’t cry! I will give you
the hair—l will indeed,” 1 exclaimed, eager
to pacify him, for it seemed strange and un
natural to see a man weep. Taking the ring
let from my work-bag, 1 held itj up in the
moonlight. His tears were checked at the
sight, and with a quick breath he took it
from my hand. Another burst of grief swepc
over him, and then he became more calm.—
When he saw that I would not take the gold,
he kissed my‘forehead, and led me forth
from the grave of “my first school-mis
tress.”
THE SISTER;
OR THE LOST THIMBLE.
BV LA GEORGIENNE.
Dim twilight was succeeded by a drizzly
rain, and the city lights shone dimly, as
care-worn and wearied men splashed through
the muddy streets and hastened onward
home.
Among others was a young man without
cloak or umbrella, whose constant cough
seemed to intimate that he should have been
better protected. He stopped at a small com
fortable house, and was about to ring, when
the door opened and a young girl took his
hand exclaiming, “ Dear William! how could
you expose yourself ?”
“ Why, would you have had me stay a
way from home all night, Lucy!” he asked,
closing the door after him.
“ No, but I didn’t want you to get drench
ed. Make haste. You'll find a good fire
and every thing you want in your room.”
The young man snatched a kiss and went
up the stair-case three steps at a time. Lucy