The Abbeville banner. [volume] (Abbeville, S.C.) 1847-1869, 1857-04-23

Hom the Boston Olive Branch.
THE LAST TINE.

| Au6 AhSI T1mE,
lie bade pleasant good morning, and
went away with smile on his lips. There
was nothing unusual in his manner--he was
always tender and gentle, always respectful
and affectionate. lie galloped from the
door, his bright curls nodding, his fine form
erect, and proud seemed the milk white
horse Of his handsome burden. Alas! it
was his ride to death: that "good morning. -
that happy sunny smilo was the last-and
who dreamed it might be so? Now, how
we llngcr on tie recollection of that voice
How we strive to think there was some
look, some tone moro tender than usual
How VIC press the hot, throbbing temples,
rs we cry, ooh! that had known should
never see him again" But vain the wild
wish {; it jars against the door of the scpul-
| chre.
We see her now, standing with half
mournful, half wildered look on the plat
forp of the crowded cars. Somebody jcsted
with her upon the possibility of her obtain
ing seat because she was young and
handsome. AS she entered, she turned
once, and smile broke like sunbeam
over her bright face. "May she havo a
happy journey!" said one; "s she is going
to her bridal; George waits for her few
miles from here, and they will both be
home tomorrow. What bright, beauti-
full glance SHE gave us !-asif all the bright
ness and beauty of her madenl.ood COM
bined to make the last recollection of Mary,
glorious to remember" 1t was the last,
for fearful sound shocked our ears-a
cloud Of dust and cinders, fire and broken
wood-a heavy plunge-a cry of mortal
agony, and where was Marya Dead, under
the ice of the river and when they brought
her forth, the strange, mournful, uncertain
look that first clouded her young face, rest
cd there now-but the smile that is inn
pcrsllahlc while wo live, for it was her last.
lie had been i'll, but was better now
How glad you were as you took his cool
hand in yours and felt the temperate beat
of the pulse. His smile was langud yet.
his speech faint. The locks hung lstless
over his brow, on which disease had traced
blucr veins and paler tints-but he was bet
ter. The doctor said so, the nurse said so,
he himself murmurcd, II am better" So
you parted from him with light heart,
looking back before you closed the door to
add some word Of advice. Tho white face
answered your glance eagerly the large
cyes-you will never forget their soul-lan-
guage while You live-it recurs again and
again ; it is painted on the walls of night in
fadcless colors it was the last time-the
last loving, life-looE- how you will
treasure it!
That laugh 1t sounds over the bridge
of death, till its.arches ring again. In that
familiar attitude, he stood, one hand on tho
marble frame Of the fireplace, one foot
crossed over the other, his head thrown
back, his brown locks shaken by the jubi-
liant glee to which the whole frame danced;
and you thought, what a happy, jovial,
handsome, hearty fellow he was full of
life and wit-roarfng his jokes, telling his
capital stories, making mother and sister
and wife proud Of his beauty, his gcniality,
his love. And you knew that beside that,
he was gentle as the lamb, true as steel,
reveront towards all good, pure hearted;
and your pleasure grew as you saw him in
his young manhood, laughing the healthful
laugh of innocent hilarity. You left him
still in the midst of his gay mirth--and
there came sudden knelI he was dead.
You cannot think Of him pale, still, voice
less--you only see the full, rounded throat,
the shaking curls-you only hear the musi-
cal, cha! hal hap, Oh how little you
thought it was the last time. "
Who does not remember some last look
The aged man pillowcd in his chair, his
eyes languidly following the object of his
dearest love-the mother wrestling with the
anguish Of bidding her babes farewell-the
brother, unfolding new plans for life, even
till tho death-grasp is on his vitals-the sis
ter, frail as beautiful flower and fading as
surely; the wife lingering long on the
brink, while the golden cord Of earthly love
Hnwinds with every slow Pglsation of the
dying heart; the husband, with eyes fas.
tened to the face that has bent over him
with ceaseless solicitude, and whose tears
cool the hot fever Of the brain-the little
babe, helpless as the violet crushed by the
PEASANTS foot-we have all seen the last
look of some Of these, and for what would
we exchange The memory' How we dyell
upon i'll and tho eyes long closed and seal.
cd in the s1nmbcr of the grave, beam with
fresh lustre rs wo think. The lips press
ours again--the smile brightens the lovely
face. Lightly rings tho laugh through on
souls winding places sofily echo the words
Of endearment, thrilling with the charm of
old, and we love TO preface every mention