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About A Friend of the family. (Savannah, Ga.) 1849-1??? | View Entire Issue (April 5, 1849)
Bct)otc£> to literature, Science, ans Art, t!)e Sous of temperance, CM Jcllorost)ip, iltasonru, an& ©encral intelligence. VOLUME I. ssirsseTES tsiws 5 !. GIE ME THY BLESSING MITHER. BY GRETTA. “ Gie me thy blessing, mither, For I must now away, To meet my bonny Agnes mither, Upon her bridal day. I’ve luved her lung and weel mither, And thou my hive hast known ; Then lay thy hand upon me mither, And bless thy kneeling son.” “Ah ! Willie, how my heart o’erflows When thus I hear thee speak ; My tears are glistening on thy hair, And dropping on thy cheek. And oh ! how memory calls up now The days of auld lang syne, When Ia winsome bride first called Thy sainted father mine. “ Ye look sae like him. Willie dear, Ye look sae like him now ; Ye hue the same dark tender e’en, The same broad, noble brow. And sic a smile was on his face When he that morning came To bring awa, as you maun do, A lassie to his hame. “Puir child, her heart is beating now As it never beat before ; Puir child, I ken her hazel e’en Wi’ tears are runnin’ o’er. She luves thee, Willie, but she feels To wed’s a solemn thing— I weel remember how I felt, When looking on the ring. “ I weel remember, too, the hour When, wi’ a heavy sigh, I turned, a wife sae young and sad, To bid them a’ good bye. The tears were gushing then, I know, For I luved my kindred weel, And though my ain was by my side, I could na’ help but feel. “But then how kind he took my hand, And gently whisper,’d— ‘ Come : The same soft star shines o'er my cot That shines above thy home.’ And, Willie, often since he’s dead, I've watched that distant star, And thought I saw his gentle face Smile in it from afar. “We luved ilk ither weel, Willie, We luved ilk ither lang. Ah me ! how happy was the heart That thrilled the even sang. We luved ilk ither, Willie, right; And may God grant it so, That ye maun luve as we twa luved, In days lang, lang ago. “ Oh ! fondly cherish her, Willie, She is sae young and fair ; She has not known a single cloud, Or felt a single care. Then, if a cauld world’s storm should come, Thy way to overcast — Oh! ever stand (thou art a man) Between her and the blast. “ When first I knew a mither’s pride, ’ Twas when I gazed on thee: And when my ither flowers died, Thy smile was left to me. And I can scarce believe it true, So late thy life began, The playful bairn I fondled then Stands by me now a man. “ T’u en ,’ eU % bonnie bride, Willie, r m u m y fi rst born son : a the darling from my arms, Ami gie him to her own. Uh * she , will cherish thee, Willie ; r or when I maun depart, m °r,! y she ’ wi,, rhen be left lo fill thy lonely heart. “ 1 din nafearto die, Willie, I ever wished to gang ; i he soft green mound in yon kirk-yard Has lonely been too long. And 1 would lay me down, Willie, And a’ death's terrors brave, eside the heart sae leal and true, It tis within the grave. Then gang away my blessed bairn, And bring thy gentle dove, dinna frown, if a’ should greet ” * 0 P ar t wi’ her they love. But if a tear fills up her ee, Then whisper, as they part, There’s room for thee at mither’s hearth, . There’s room in mither’s heart. “ And may the God that reigris above, And sees yea’ the while, Look down upon your plighted troth, And bless ye wi’ his smile. And may’st thou ne’er forget, Willie, In a’ thy future life, To serve the power that gave to thee Thy kind and guileless wife.” liiiif mil, THE YOUNG TURTLE-DOVE OF CARMEL. BY MARY HOWITT. A great many turtle-doves lived about Mount Carmel. There were orange trees and cypresses there, and among these the doves lived all the winter; they had broods early in the year, and towards the end of March, or beginning of April, they set off like great gentlefolks to spend “the seasons” near London. All last winter a young English musician, who was very pale and thin, lived with the monks in the monastery on Mount Carmel. He went to Syria because, as a child, he had loved so to hear his mother read in the Bible; she often read to him about Elijah and Elisha on mount Carmel, and he used to think then, that if he were rich he would go and see all the wonderful places mentioned in the Bible. He never was rich, and vet he came here. He was very very pale and thin, and had large beautiful but sorrowful eyes. He took a violin with him to Mount Carmel; It was the greatest treasure lie had on earth. He played the most wonderful things on his violin that ever were heard, and every body who heard him said that he was a great musician. In the winters he suffered very much from the cold and the fogs of England; so last summer he saved a little money, and set off* with his violin to Syria; and all last winter he lived in the monastery on Mount Carmel, among the grave old monks. There was one little old monk, a very, very old mail, who soon grew very fond of him ; he too had been a musician, but he was now almost childish, and had forgotten how to play; so the monks took from him his old vio lin, because they said he made such a noise with it. He cried to part with it like a child, poor old man! The young musician had a little chamber in the monastery, which overlooked the sea; nobody can think what a beautiful view it had? The sun shone in so warm and pleasant, and a little group of cypresses grew just below the window, and looked out on the sea, and down on the cypress trees, among the thick branches of which he heard the turtle-doves cooing. He loved to hear those turtle-doves —and so did the little old monk. One day early in January he saw that the turtle doves had built a nest just insight; lie watched the birds taking it by turns to sit on the eggs, and his heart was full of love to them ; they turned up their gentle eyes to him, but they never flew away, for they saw in his mild and sorrowful countenance, that he would not hurt them. Beautiful and melancholy music sounded for half the day down from his window to where the birds sate fit had a strange charm to the doves; thev thought it was some grand,new kind ol night ingale come down from heaven. The little old monk sate in his long Carmelite frock, with his hands laid together on his knees, and his head down on his breast, and listened with his whole soul; to him too it came as a voice of heaven, which seemed to call him away to a better land ; great tears often fell from his eyes, but they were not sorrowful tears ; they were tears of love, tears which were called forth by a feeling of some gieat happiness which was coming for him, but which he could not qnite understand; he was, as you know, a very old man ; the oldest in all the mon astery, and almost childish. The music from the young man’s room sounded SAVANNAH, GA.. THURSDAY, APRIL 5, 1849. finer and finer every day; as early spring came on he grew very poorly; so the little old monk used to bring his meals into his chamber, because it tired him so to go up and down the long stone stairs to the great eating-room. There never was anybody so kind as the little old monk. A pairofyoung doves were hatched in the nest, and when the sun shone in at the window, the young man used to sit in his dressing gown, with a pillow in his chair, and look out over the sea, and down into the cypress tree where the turtle doves’ nest was; he would sit for hours and look at them, and many beautiful thoughts passed through his mind as he did so. Never had his heart been so full of love as now; the little old monk used to sit on a low seat before him, waiting for the time when he asked for his violin; that was a great happiness to them both. The mu sician loved him very much, and often when he played, he meant to pour bright and comfortable thoughts in his innocent, affectionate soul. It was the end of March; the turtle-doves were all preparing for their flight to England ; the pair that had built under the musician’s window had a home in some old quiet woods in Surrey, where it was delightfully mild and pleasant even in winter, but they never were there in winter, al though their wood had the name of Winterdown. It was a lovely wood ; broad-leaved arums, and primroses, and violets blue and white, covered the ground in spring; in summer there were hun dreds and hundreds of glow-worms there, and the old tree-trunks were wreathed with ivy and honeysuckle. It was a very pleasant wood, and near to it the poet’s children were born ; they had wandered in it and gathered its flowers and ad mired its glow-worms and listened to the turtle doves when they were very young; now, how ever, their home was nearer London : they onlv went to Winterdown about once a year for a a great holiday. The old turtle-doves talked about the poet’s children in Winterdown, and the young doves fancied that they lived there always. It was now the time to sett off on their long journey; the old parts had exercised their young ones, and they were sure they could perform the journey. Next morning early they were to set off. All night there was a light burning in the young musician’s chamber, and towards morning the most heavenly music sounded from the window, which the old monk had opened a very little for fresh air, because his young friend complained of the room being close and hot. The sound woke the doves; they sate and listened to what they still thought a glorious bird; the old monk sate with his feeble hands together and head raised; it was the first time for years that he had sate so ; he knew not that he was in heaven or on earth; all his pain was gone. It was a blissful moment; the next moment and all was still in the chamber —wonderfully still. The lamp still burned ; a soft breeze blew in from the half opened window, and just stirred tne old man’s Carmelite frock, and lifted the young man’s dark locks, but they neither of them moved. “That glorious bird has done his singing for this morning,” said the old doves ; “he will now sleep—let us set off; all our friends and neighbors are off already; we have a long journey before us.” The parent doves spread their wings ; they and their elder one were away ; the young sate as if entranced in the nest; he could think of nothing but the glorious bird that had just been singing; his family wheeled round the cypresses and then returned for him; they bade him come, for it was late ; that the sun was rising above the sea, and that all the doves of Carmel were ready for flight. The young dove spread his wings also for this long journey, bearing with him still the remembrance of that thrilling music which affect ed him so greatly. The turtle doves were forth on their journey. The young musician and the little old monk had started before them on one much longer. ***##### It was the end of March ; the poet’s garden was beginning to be beautiful; the daffodils were out in great bunches; the polyanthuses stood on their round green cluster of leaves like bright headed pins on a lady’s pincushion; the jonquils had burst their dry delicate spathes and were ready to open their lovely fragrant cups to the sun; the hyacinths were just bursting forth also, whilst upon the old wall shone out like radiant gems the intense scarlet flowers of the pyrus joponica ; the air was fragrant with violets, and the lilacs and westeria were beginning to show their profuse wealth offlowers; the little clustered buds on the tops of the elm-trees looked in the sunshine as if cut out of coral; the roses were full of } r oung shoots, some green and some red; and the peony pierced the moulded with its dark crimson leaves folded up as yet, like so many blunt-headed spears. The old blackbird had a mate, and he was singing to her with all his might; the rooks had forgotten all their winter troubles, and were now busy building and quarrelling. It w T as a true spring morning, and. the poet’s children walked hand in hand up and down the gardens laying out great plans for the future of the sum mer. Just then the weary turtle-doves of Carmel had reached England ; the flocks that had set out first had all come safely: they now, however, were very weary and hungry; the young turtle-dove that loved the music so much was the weakest and most wearied of all the flock. “We have not far to go,” said the mother, as it lagged be hind and seemed ready to faint, “in an hour we shall be at Winterdown;” the little dove grew fainter; just then they passed over the poet’s gar den, where the poet’s children were walking. “There they are,” said the mother, “the poet’s children with their loving eyes and the golden hair; we shall be at Winterdown in less than an hour, follow me!” The weary camel in the desert when it per ceives water afar off although faint and ready to sink the moment before, bounds forward in hope and joy for the promised relief—so was it with the flock of doves ; soaring above the outskirts of London, they saw in the distance the old favorite woods of Surrey, towards which they winged their way with impatient delight. The weary young turtle sank down among the rose trees, and heard the voices of the children as they w'ent by. In the evening, they saw what they thought a white pigeon on a young pear they were so pleased that they even dreamed about it. Next day the young turtle-dove was still there;- so hungry and frightened, and feeling so forlorn and friendless. The children again saw it; this made them happier still; it must be come to live with them ; they stole up softly to the tree where it sat, and the little trembling bird allowed itself to be caught. They rushed into the house ; they had caught they said, the white pigeon that was so beautiful, and yet so unlike their own old ones., — It shall live with us; it shall love us; it shall have a mate and be so happy,” said the children. For the first time since it had left Carmel it had now plenty to eat. It put its head behind its wings and slept calmly for hours. The poor little turtle dove, however, was un happy though no one knew it, it looked out of the bars of its large cage, and longed for the free dom of Mount Carmel and the long talked of breezy heights of Winterdown. It could not un derstand the nature of the wicker bars which en closed it. It thought of free flight in the blue heavens, and fluttered from side to side of its cage. The little turtle-dove w r as sick at heart: it wanted it knew r not what; but a something which w r as beyond its reach. It understood not the loving eyes of the children ; it w r anted space, free dom, companionship, but not in a cage! The next day w r as Sunday. The turtle’s cage stood in a boudoir; it leoked beautiful in the win- NUMBER 5 ,
