The Lancaster ledger. [volume] (Lancaster, S.C.) 1852-1905, 1855-01-10
SUNDAY READING.
A Winter Evenings Thoughts.
The voices of my home, hear them still

'The voices of my home, hear them still"
There are moments when the spirits
sink too low for human aid-when our
earthly hopes and bright anlicpations lie
IN dust and ruins, never to be revived
o, happy then are they that can look for
comfort from higher source and say,
"Father, thy will, not mine, be done'-
while broodmg over agonies that have
left their deep scars upon the heart.
1t is night. Darkness has veiIed the
earth, and the snow-king is silently throw
ing his mantle over his bosom the wind
walls in titful gusts, then dies silently
away, as if to "inock the voice OF mirth."
Ills the hour of revery, when the soul
goes cut upon its wandcrings and loves
to iinger around the dead, and grieve sin
the churchyard lone and dreary," or wan
der to tue days Of its golden youlh-the
dear home Of its childhood, It's thrilling
memories, its happy dreams, and its plea
sures unalIoyed. The home tireside of
beloved parents, where brother and sister
clustered with true and loving hearts -
where the song OF JOY and the burst OF
gladness came forth from the heart. Ali,
memory-how it goes out upon its
shadowy wing and looks long upon the
old brown house, towering amidst its lofty
trees, casting its shadow far behind, and
listens TO the worlds mysterious moan,
AS If bewailing the lost aud scattered ones
of the once happy household. There |
drew my first brea:h and learned my first
childish pra tie. There | was taught the
eniearing words-father, mother, brother,
sister. There learned to breathe with
devotion the hallowed name Of Deity
to read His holy word, and contemplate
ulm-with awe and reverence. There |
heard my mothers sIvery voice, com
mingled with her chidren's, float out upon
the night.breeze in praise oil Him, the
creator OF all, and then knet around the
family altar and heard my father pray
Long years have passed and still those
voices "yibrate upon my heart like the
sounds which the passing wind draws
from the trembling strings OF u harp left
on some desert shore" There were my
Fairgrounds, my shady walks, the old
beech tree with my name cut in child
hood, idle hours-there the sun shone
brighter, the moon rode more majestical-
ly, and the 'overhanging firmanent look
ed like aroof fretted with golden fres."-
There the flowers grew more luxuriant,
and filed the air with their delicious per-
fume-there was music in the ripping,
pebbled stream, and harmony in the roar
Of the river. There the dews of heaven
fell more softly, and the birds warbled
sweeter. II was paradise to my young
mind. MY home! my happy home, and
its beloved inmates !-even now | can
look back distinctly and with emotions of
pleasure, through the weary stretch of
time, to the gay dreams, the many bright
and sunny spots, along the path Of by
gone years; they are as cool and as beau
tiful and refreshing to memory as the land
Of everlasting spring.
Would that memory could pause here
in its travel, but no-the smiter came I
On the wing of night, aud in the midst
Of gayety, like the fearful boom OF an
earthquake, catne a message in these
words--"Sister, come, our mother is dy-
ing" oh, it is stereotyped on my brain
and heart, and. that travel Of fifty miles
through midnight darkness can never be
obliterated from my memory, and the
awful gloom that followed in its wake.
The sun was up, dispelling the mist from
his autumn brow, ere | looked upon my
home; but oh God where was nv
mother, my tender ruother, who was wont
to meet me at the door and give me a
mothers kiss She pas dead The
morning zephyrs were signing amidst the