The Bolivar bulletin. [volume] (Bolivar, Hardeman County, Tenn.) 1865-1888, 1866-04-28
Graveyard Musings.
WRITTEN rOn TIE BULLrrIs By ALv1s ALLEY.

This is the silent abode of many, who,
Iongyears ago passed over the Lethean waves;
here their tempest tossed barks are hid be-
meath the little mounds around which green
shrubs and wild flowers grow, while the liv
ing souls which they once contained are
wandering on amid Elysian groves and fairy
fields that are strewn hither and thither
throughout the infnitude of space. In this
little city of the dead are gathered together
/ the ashes of those who were ushered into
being leagues upon leagues apart; whose
wandering foot steps have long since
been covered over with the drifting sands
of time, and are now known to them no
more. There, where that tiny violet lifts its
beautiful head above the green sward moul-
/ ders into nothingness the once dauntless
warriors form; near it slumbers on alike un-
/ conscious to the sunshine or the storm the
earthly remnant Of her who claimed his ev-
cry thought; who, in youth, gave back sigh
/ for sigh and looked the soul of love while
/ hand in hand they wandered on through lifes
varied and ever changing scenes. There,
with a bleeding heart and humble voice the
last farewell was breathed over the loved
ones form that once shed halo Of pleasure
around the sacred duties of home-her soft
blue eyes are closed forever and the kindly
heart beats no more in the casket of the soul
o, when that farewell was taken how truly
mournful, how desolate did home seem
with her, the sunshine of the heart went out;
when the angel of Death spread his wings
over her path the storm-cloud of sorrow
rained down from the fountains of crushed
hopes tears of bitterness and regret There,
where that newly broken earth shuts out the
April sun from the fading form that lies be-
low, sleeps one whose deeds were blameless
to the last-whOse soul felt too keenly sor-
rows and pangs that we may never know
There, where the sculptor's creation refe cts
the silVery rays Of the morning sun, rests a
tender bud that was plucked from its parent
| stem ere the spring flowers of life were
opened to the dews of wisdom or the holy
zephyrs that are waited around the family
alter by unseen angels as they list to the
! good mans prayer Yes, beneath that pol
ished tomb is laid away forever a darling
4AOOcOAAOAO PCG. A4O C4OSGu eyes, iOlUO0
hands and dimpIed chin were wrapped in
| spotless white-ft emblem of stainless soul
! and hid away beneath the mournful beau
ties Ofthe scene, where they will remain until
the grave shall give up its dead and the cor
ruptible put on incorruptibility. Here rests
no kindred blood Of mine, but the kindred
! spirits that are now wandering in the illim-
table world of space, spirits that once ami
mated the inanimate forms that are now be-
meath my feet. are my kindred and my kind
With them It's a pleasure to commune, and
though no voice Is heard and no lip is moved
and no form is seen, there comes sense of
their presence creeping over the soul and
we sit mute and motionless while with their
unseen and inexplainabIe agencies they give
to mind power over matter that renders
US searchingly contemplative and fills our
very thoughts with ideal beauties that we
would never have known had we not yielded
to their mysterious mysteries. As they lift
the veil that shuts out the forgotten past, we
look back through the hazy vista Of by-gone
years and see the beauties that were passed
over all unheeded in our rapid youthful
march along the corridors of time; and as
we linger around the crumbling alters upon
which we laid our hearts best hopes, a spark
of electric fire rises from amid the rank
weeds of our lonely Patmos and is transfxed
by a spirit hand far out into the future as
beacon light; we turn our eyes toward it.
the veil is dropped, and we are borne along
on the wings Of new-found thought and com
mune, as it were. with beings long since freed
from earth and the gloomy portals of the
tomb. o, how mute, yet how enchanting is
the somehow deep and holy the voice
less teachings of this little city of the dead.
No sound breaks in on the solemn stiffness,
no discord, no jars; here we sit and weave
a chaplet of flowers from memOry's vases
and carry their pure influence and fragrance
back into busy life again. 0 that the wreath
thus won may ever be watered from the river
of Hope and kept green in the garden Of
Peace, so that with an unfatering trust !"
we too can bare our breasts to the chilling
winds of Death and go down into the un-
known vale that shuts out from view the
doubts, fears and sorrows of our first exist
eRce with full faith in purified speirital
life in the Great Hereafter. If this be not
in store for US,
And we " wOulder carthward. reft Of every trust
In loyess union welded to dust,
Then fade, We Wild flowers memorials Of my doom,
sink. ye bright stars, light the tomb"
The terrible tornado, says the New York
} Day Book, which recently visited Indiana
: also extended into southern Illinois. 1t is