To M—G— [pp. 628]

SOUTHERN LITERARY MESSENGER.
Zizine, in tears; " but I want that you should always
be my father."
Stephanie, who had heard all, presses the little girl
to her heart, and says-" Thus I lose everything at
once-love, friendship, all that has made the charm of
the past, and is the hope of the future."
"Oh! be not distressed, my dear friend," says Zizinc, "M. Guerreville is very good. He knows all
that you have done for me, and he will let me come and
see you very often: is it not so, Jerome?"
" Yes, without doubt-I'll answer for it; we will all
be very happy together. But your grandpapa expects
you, my Zinzinette; this good man has been miserable
for nine years, and you must now hasten to console
him."
Jerome does not wait for a reply. He carries out
the little girl-gets into the carriage with her, where
he places her on his knees; for the good Auvergnese
wishes to take advantage of these last moments in
w hicli he can treat Zizine like his daughter. But the
whole length of the way, he was constantly repeating
to the child
"You must call M. Guerreville father, immediatelyalways call him father. Oh, it will do him so much
good to hear you call him so-this good man! that will
be enough to cure him."
At length they reach Paris. They stop before the
door of M. Guerreville. He had risen and was sitting
at the window; the doctor could not refuse him this
privilege. On seeing Zizine descend from the carriage,
his sight grows dim, his eyes fill with tears, and he falls
almost senseless on his chair. But he recovers himself
as he hears a sweet voice saying to him-" My father,
do you wish to embrace your daughter?"
Who can describe the happiness, the rapture of this
man, who, for nine years, has not answered to that tender namne? He presses Zizine in his arms, he covers
her with kisses, he cannot take his eyes away from her;
for in this child he sees once more his lost Pauline.
"Brave Jerome!' says M. Guerreville, when he recovers strength to speak, "I owe you all my happiness!
Ah, my friend, you shall not leave me. I wish that
you should give up your present situation, and pass
the rest of your days in repose and happiness."
"I repose!" says Jerome; "and what for? I am
not sick! Ctuit my present situation! Oh! no, Monsicur Guerreville, permit me always to remain a watercarrier and nothing but a water-carrier. You will not
receive me with less pleasure, and I shall be better contented. Ah! when I shall have no more strength to
carry my buckets-then I don't say, but that I might
be glad of a little corner to sleep in-with permission
to embrace my Zinzinette. That is all that I shall
need to make me happy!"
M. Guerreville's only reply was to press the Auvergnese in his arms, while his little daughter leaps
upon his neck.
It is said that deep emotions are dangerous, but those
born of pleasure seldom result in evil. Eight days
after this event, M. Guerreville was entirely recovered;
but his grand-daughter had not left him for a moment,
and she was so gentle, so sweet, so affectionate, that
lhe could not but say to her-" My dear child, you have
restored to me all that I have lost!"
Madam Dolbert had returned w ith Stephanie to Pa
rIis.. Among kind-hearted people, acquaintance and attachments are soon formed. M. Guerreville was very
happy in testifying to Madam Dolbert and Stephanie,
his gratitude for all that they had done for Zizine. A
pleasant intimacy was established between them, and
thus Zizine still continued to see her young protectress.
Jerome came often to embrace her whom he had so
long called his daughter; and the evidence of Zizine's
happiness repaid all that he had done for her.
Dr. Jenneval, the sincere and devoted friend, whose
assiduity had preserved the life of M. Guerreville, was
regarded as one of the family; and in the course of
time, by his amiable character and liveliness of wit,
effaced from the heart of Stephanie the image of her
first lover.
TO M G
BY S. W. INGE.
Grief —Grief has left
Its saddest traces on thy mournful brow!
Thy virgin face, so youthful, tells c'en now
Of joys bereftOf sweet affection's early, gloomy blight —
Of fondest hopes sunk into sorrow's night!
Death-ruthless Death!
Itas stricken, even yesterday, one dear
To thy existence,-making life drear!
The Autumn's breath
Comes not more chilling on the Summer's rose,
Than this remembrance o'er thy lheart's repose.
Thy heart is lone!
No mother's kindly smile upon thee beamsNo star of peace amid life's darkness gleams;
Thy smiles are gone!
Wh~le lingers yet youth's morning glow
Upon thy cheek, as sunbeams on the snow!
But oh! think not
That there is none, who fondly dreams of thee —
Who, in affliction's hour, weeps sympathy
In thy sad lot.
Aye, dearest, I will be, in hours of care,
More than a father —kindred-ever are!
'Tis but a day
Since I have known aught of thy joy or grief;
Yet would I give my life to bring relief —
To chase away
The sad remembrance of the gloomy pastTo teach thee sorrow will not always last!
Thou hast no home
To call thee to its shades of peace and rest —
To calm sad mem'ry —make existence blest:
Then wilt thou come,
Ohl! brightest angel of my fairy dreamsAnd shed around my soul love's joyous beams?
And we will dwell
In the sweet south, where green savannals wave —
Where the blue sea shall aver murmuring lave
Our sylvan (]ell!
Oh! there, on poesy's enchanted ground,
We'll live, within deep ocean's ceaseless sound!
628