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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 ,
