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SOUTHERN LITERARY GAZETTE: A WEEKLY JOURNAL OF LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND ART. WM* €• 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