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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