Thinking the following Fragment, found among the writings of the late much lamented Doctor Joseph Youle, will be an acquisition to the Editors of the Weekly Magazine, I have endeavoured to obtain a copy of it, and present it to them, with a wish that it may be received by the public with as much pleasure as it was by
M.
A FRAGMENT, after the manner of J. Y.
The sun was retiring behind a lofty ridge of mountains to gladden other regions; the towering spires of the village churches were tipt with gold; while the resplendent rays reflected from the windows dazzled the eye. Above was the azure vault, variegated with fleecy clouds; beneath was Nature’s verdant carpet. The little songsters of the grove were paying their tributes of praise in melodious strains; the bleatings of the lambs, and the lowings of the milky mothers re-echoed from the vallies. The waters of a gently murmuring stream, which ran by the foot of a mountain, were silvered o’er by the mild rays of the queen of night. The soothing sound of a distant cataract gently saluted the ear. The fragrant odors of flowers, watered by gentle zephyrs, breath’d a delightful perfume.
Surely, says Amelia, all nature conspires to calm the mind, to restore tranquility, to soften every care. But what can ease the torture of a love-sick soul; like the angry sea after agitation by blustering winds, ’tis still tumultuous. My Philander sleeps in the silent dust; to the king of terrors he has fallen an untimely prey: cold are the clods that cover his once faithful breast. That heart which was once the seat of sensibility, and endowed with every virtue, ceases to vibrate to the sound of woe. The widow and the orphan shall point to thy tomb, Philander, and cry, There lies our friend and patron! She walked pensively towards the place where his last remains were interred: Is this white stone, emblem of his innocence, the only memento of the lovely youth?—No—thou ever livest in the soul of Amelia; there, in indelible characters, thy image is impress’d. I will strew thy grave with flowers; I will raise upon it the green sod; I will encircle it with willows. Let not unhallowed feet tread here; this place to love is sacred. Nightly will I visit thy grave, nor shall the wealth of worlds induce me to forego the mournful pleasure. If the spirits of the just watch round their surviving friends, then surely thou art my guardian angel. Dear shade, thou knowest the anguish of my soul: to me thou can’st not be visible—where thou art, I soon shall be, never to part again: in that state, where eternal love, and joy, and peace prevail. While she stood entranced in pleasing anticipation, she reflected on his last request:—“Amelia, live to reward my virtues, friend, and bless the world with a race of angels like thyself.” Suddenly she started at the voice of complaining and of woe;—’twas Titius, breathing the anguish of his soul to the silent night.—“Oh, Amelia, thou lovely fair one, how long must I mourn an unreturned affection? thou knowest I waste my midnight hours in thoughts on thee; the conscious moon, the woods, the groves, are witnesses of my love: I grieve unpitied—I sigh unheard.” As he advanced towards her, she exclaimed:—“Titius, I know, I feel thy sorrow;—if thou can’st in return for love accept of friendship, I am thine. Thou knowest the object of my soul, the once adorable, amiable Philander.” In an extacy of amazement and delight, he cries—“Angels, catch the sounds; ’tis my Amelia’s voice: thy friendship is more valuable than the love of Titius. Let us be happy. We will visit the grave of Philander together, and pay to his memory the tribute of love and friendship. Each returning season we will decorate his grave with flowers, till we go to join him in the world of spirits; where there is an ever blooming spring, an eternal day.”
NEW-YORK.
MARRIED,
On Thursday the 30th ult. at Flatbush, (L.I.) by the Rev. Mr. Faitoute, Mr. Charles Dickenson, of Saybrook, (Connecticut) to Miss Nancy Smith, of this city.