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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE:
A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART.
WM* ۥ RICHARDS, Editor*
©rigmal Poetry.
For the Southern Literary Goeette.
SING TO ME, LOVE.
BY CAROLINE HOWARD.
.Sing to me, lore, the moon beams cold,
The Rowers are closed, and tranquil lie,
And zephyrs mild their forms enfold,
And night is brooding o'er the sky.
Sing to me, love—yon silent star,
Trembling and gleaming, waits thy song.
And, patient in her silvery car,
The moon hath vainly listened long.
*
Sing to me, love, some touching air,
To calm the fever in my breast,
And let disquiet throbbing there
Be soothed by music’s charm to rest.
Sing to me sweet, and tell me, now,
With earnest voice thy trust and love,
And I will make anew the vow,
To trust in thee below, above.
If e’er I change, if e’er I roam—
If e'er thou doubt’st this heart, my dove,
One murmured note will call me home ;
Sing to me, love—sing to me, love.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
THE WILLOW SONG.
ARRANGED TO MUSIC, BY I. N. METCALF, ESQ.
BY J . W . IIANSON.
I.
’Twas a cold and starry evening,
Moonlight fell in silver lines;
Airy voices sad were grieving
In the music-haunted pines.
11.
Pale a mother watched her dearest,
Wept she o’er her darling child;
“ O, mother, mother, hearest
Thou those sounds so strangely wild t”
111.
“ Oh, hush thee, hush thy sobbings,
Lean thy head upon my breast
t( Mother, how thy heart’s low throbbings
Seem to whisper me to rest!”
IV.
“ As I slept upon my pillow,
I saw before me stand
A broad and waving Willow,
Leaning o’er a silent land !
V.
“ In its green and blessed branches,
Murmured voices sweet and clear,
Like an organ when it launches
Silver music on the ear.
VI.
44 On that verdant, wide savanna,
There grew no other tree;
Its broad and sombre banner
Was all that I could see.
VII.
44 As I gazed upon its brightness,
Forth a lovely creature flew;
She was dressed in sun-bright whiteness,
As she caught my startled view—
VIII.
“ Took my hand in her cold fingers,
Leaned my head upon her heart;
Oh, like iee that cold touch lingers!
Will it nevermore depart 1
IX. *
44 See, the Willow now is swinging !
Slow its music cometh near!
Now grows faint —now softly ringing,
Dies upon my list’ning ear!” •
X.
Bowed that mother in deep sorrow.
Fell her tears like April rain;
Sadly mourned she on the morrow,
For the child ne’er spake again.
> i
Original.
MARRIAGE.
An endless ring oft ends our love,
And gives us after cause to weep,
And hence I deem the adage good,
To look always before we leap! [W.
ATHENS, GEORGIA, SATURDAY, APRIL 14, 1849.
Popnlar <£aUs.
For the Southern Literary Gazette.
EVELYN HAMILTON:
—OR —
THE SISTERS.
BY MISS ELIZA G. NICHOLS.
[■CONCLUDED.]
On the morrow, no bridal wreath was
twined, no altar decorated, for she who was
to be the happy bride lay raving in the wild
delirium of fever. And instead of the bridal
array, and the happy train, anxious hearts
were hushing their throbbings around that
curtained couch. Walter Preston would lean
over her, and try to reassure her, to soothe
her, when she raved wildly that she had
driven him from her, and broken his heart;
and that Alice, her sweet sister, was dying;
and entreated them to drive away the cold
serpents that were trying to coil hnd fasten
their deadly venom in the peace of her heart.
Alice, pale, restless, but not less wretched,
less pitiable, was a sleepless watcher over
that couch. To her, the strange, incoherent
language of Evelyn, was not incomprehensi
ble. She felt that the hidden secret of her
heart had been discovered. And during the
long, weary, hopeless days and weeks, in
which Evelyn’s reason was despaired of,
Walter Preston kept those hopeless vigils.—
He, too, was pale and haggard; the agony
of mind, the torturing anxiety, as he witness
ed the suffering of that being with whom his
heart was so inseparably blended, was more
than torture—it was almost despair. At
length the crisis came —a change in the dis
ease. The sufferer had fallen into a gentle
slumber; Walter and Alice were in their ac
customed places, near the pillow; but con
cealed by the muslm drapery, in a recess, sat
the rest of that anxious household. All was
breathless anxiety in that silent and dimly
lighted room. After many hours, she awoke
and spoke to herself, as if thinking she was
alone. The good old minister bent his ear
more closely, to catch the train of her thoughts
and when satisfied that she was calm and ra
tional, he quietly put back the snowy mus
lin, and repeated her name. She recognized
his familiar face—she extended her hand, and
asked where Walter and Alice, and all the
rest were.
“You are here, Parson Evans, and the room
is so dark ; I must have been sick; but that is
better than to sleep and have such strange
dreams. lam glad it was only a dream—it
was so painful; and they were all in it.”
“You must not think of that silly dream,
my child ; you have been very sick, and this
may make you worse; but you shall see them
all, if you will not talk much.”
And as they all came one by one to the
bedside she smiled and extended her hand to
each.
“But Walter, you and Alice have been
sick too, how pale you are;” and she shud
dered as she pressed her hand to her eyes, as
if to exclude some painful vision.
“ Evelyn, you must not talk too much now.
You are too weak to bear the fatigue and ex
citement.” #
“I will be more calm, only do not go away;
all of you sit around me here and talk to me.
I am so weary of my own thoughts.”
Slowly Evelyn regained her health; and
during the long months of her convalescence,
that devoted sister and lover seldom left her
alone, for the melancholy that had settled up
on her spirits was but too evident to the
watchful eye of love. One evening, as Wal-
ter sat by her side, vainly attempting to be
guile her for a time of that settled melancholy,
she requested him to draw the chair into the
balcony, that she might look upon the beauti
ful sunset which was gilding the heavens,
and enjoy the,balmy air which came softly
breathing among the flowers that swept in
rich masses around the balcony, and came
gently exhaling from the rare exotics which
bloomed in vases around them.
“Evelyn,” said Preston, as he took her
wasted hand in his seated himself
near her, “what is this which so mournfully
depresses you. May I not know it? Is not
that confidence my privilege now ?”
“Yes, Walter, it is your privilege to know
it, and it was my duty to have spoken of it
to you long weeks ago, since it is concerning
principally, and since it has so often
caused me to be reserved towards you. But
it will give you so much pain, Walter.” ‘
“Tell me all frankly, Evelyn; this sus
pense is torturing; can you suppose me so
thoroughly selfish, as to wish that sorrow
concealed, which you must bear, merely be
cause it would spare me pain. And think
you, that I have been so regardless as not to
have witnessed your dejection with deep feel
ing. But I could not think of agitating a
subject which was evidently unpleasant,
when of late you had suffered so much.”
“Oh! Walter, you cannot dream of the na
ture of this subject, or the extent of the
wretchedness it will occasion. Justice to you
compels me to sacrifice my sacred duty to
another—to reveal that which no other earth
ly consideration could induce me to reveal.
It is of Alice that I would speak ; she loves
you passionately, Walter; her young heart
has offered up its wealth of love to )ou. I
heard the whole maddening truth the evening
that you found me half senseless on the porch
of the church. Here, upon this balcony, her
head resting upon the floor, she was pouring
forth the anguish of her heart—the hapless
wretchedness she must endure when we were
married. Irresistibly spell-bound, f listened
to the words which were smiting me to the
earth; and when I could bear no more, I
rushed from the spot; the rest is a confused,
painful dream. You know the many wretch
ed weeks it lasted. But, Walter, Alice must
never know that the sanctuary of her grief
has been invaded —the humiliating thought
that the secret of her heart has been exposed
to you, or even to myself. She must remain
ignorant of it always. Let our marriage
never be mentioned, because it gives her p&in.
Oh! Walter, why did I awake to conscious
ness from that terrible dream, to be the vic
tim of even more hopeless wretchedness! I
will not do such violence to your feelings as
to believe that you will ever love or marry
Alice; 1 cannot control your feelings or ac
tions in this; I only know the stern, unal
terable destiny, which every principle of hon
or, duty and love, trace out for me. Walter,
hear me out: bitter as it must be to both,
should I now neglect fully to explain all I
feel —all which a most sacred duty imposes—
you might think my future course heartless,
ungrateful, and utterly unworthy of one whom
in your fond partiality, you have placed
above her sex. You know I have ever act
ed as a guardian watcher over my sister—
nurtured and sympathized, in every hope,
wish and impulse of her youthful heart.—
Upon the death-bed of each of my parents,
though so young myself, my baby sister was
committed to my care and affection. I was
to be in after years the guide and cherishing
friend, upon whom her clinging heart might
securely repose. Her happiness is far dearer
to me than my own can ever be. Walter r we
VOLUME I.—NUMBER 48.
can never be married ; I can never build up
my happiness upon the wreck of hers; let
my own heart wither; let me bp the victim.
Walter, dear Walter, I have striven to find
words to soothe, to palliate this bitter com
munication ; but I know too well that the
barbed shaft ever rankles fatally, whether
borne upon the whirlwind or the zephyr.”
And as she listened to the tumultuous
throbbiqgs of that heart whose every pulsa
tion thrilled for her, she bowed her head up
on his bosom, and wept like a sorrowing
child.
“Walter, I am so very miserable—how
unfit my poor riven heart is,*to bestow sym
pathy upon another.”
“ Evelyn, why do you speak so hopeless
ly—why do you sacrifice us also? for, if
you persist m this rash course, you will grad
ually sink under the self-inflicted blow; and
you crush me also —without restoring happi
ness to Alice. After we are married, she
will, perhaps, become resigned, and reward
the patient love of Horace. For, Evelyn, I
can never love another; my heart refuses to
bow at a less elevated shrine. My feelings
and thoughts have become assimilated to
thine own, so pure, so lofty. No !my heart
can never warm beneath the influence of ano
ther’s love. Evelyn Hamilton, if you cast
me off, I must be a lone, wretched wanderer;
you ruin my hopes forever.”
“Walter, forbear to delineate the happi
ness which 1 must forego forever—to portray
your abandoned hopelessness—if you would
not again prostrate the frail being who has
already bowed beneath the blight. You can
not feel, you cannot discern, the sacredness
of my duty, as I do. I need not say how
devotedly iny heart will cling round your
destiny, however distant our lots may be cast;
I need not say how entirely, how changeless
ly, I am yours; yes, forever yours! though
we may never be united on earth. It is evi
dent to ire, to all, that she is drooping daily
like a blighted flower, beneath the influence
of feeling which is treasured as a priceless
jewel in her pure spirit. I could bear all
this alone, Walter—could be resigned; it is
for your sake I feel its crushing power.”
“ Evelyn Hamilton, I could bear your scorn,
your utter hatred, for then, perhaps, my pride
would sustain me; but to love you so devo
tedly, to know that feeling reciprocated, and
yet to resign you forever—to see you daily
falling a sacrifice—is too bitter. Pause, Ev
elyn, before you so rashly decide, and reflect
that your own heart is not the only immola
tion which you throw regardlessly upon the
altar of your duty. I have not the calcula
ting philosophy t the cold stoicism, to resist
the blight of this. It unmans me.” And as
he pressed her fair head more closely to his
heart, “the unbidden tears of manly sorrow”
fell unchecked amid the braids of her dark
hair.
“Walter, dear one, my heart is breaking,
and I am crushing yours; but though in my
own heart I am shutting out hope, happiness,
even life itself, I cannot swerve from obliga
tions so sacred. If you love me still, do not
seek to shake my purpose. To relieve your
feelings, I have said all that a devoted heart
could prompt, all the most exacting heart
could require. I have said much more than,
under any other circumstances, f could have
revealed.”
“Then, Evelyn, since this is your stern de
cision, grant me the only solace that yet re
mains—let me remain always near you; let
this dear home of my childhood still be an
asylum to me, from the hollow pageantries,
the uncongenial intercourse of the world; for
what now are my talents, wealth, my proud