The weekly Panola star. [volume] (Panola, Miss.) 1857-1881, 1867-12-07
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WI W. Hsa "a fhe maHshhH hlAfh tai fhgH
Ss mert Si'A ~ istAs solss siil ,oms NJ
mss' me- wits
And lhoa aft EeHel Gone fmevsfi|
Never again shall | behold lhy form
within ~ ases@,smsd pIme, u mnfh
thy footprints upon the sand. of time.
0Godl n thh life we're al, II their
vtrc no long hereafter, who bat
would throw herself upon d funeral
pile for ihc being that She loved, and
whom she felt 70 bra part n her very
existence. Yea they have laid thee
10 the cold, dark grave b. rest and
] shall miss thee so at eve when ]
am wont 10 81 and watch for thy
coming, and list II can but catch q
faint echo Of one loved tone upon
the passing zephyr. | shall dream
until nights fires kindlc, and then,
awaking from this sweet forgeiful-
ness, heave "long, long sigh and
weep that never again shall the sound
Of thy football quicken the bcatings
Of my lonely heart, or the touch Of
thy fond hand deepen the earnation
of my cheek. oy vot}on
"Ncverl" What world Of woe
Is in that word--that little word.
How many merry hearts has i crushed
and how many happy lives II has
withcred. ~ a ,a,v .l. 1rsA &
~ "Never!" IT'S the chain which
binds Prometheus, to the Caucasus
of inerthess, Despair, which preys
upon the vitals that hope ever creates
anew. 1t is indeed the raven of
ebon wing which once ,perched DER
the portal Of the soul, he'er wcaries,
but "still is sitting, still is sitting"
haunting ltbe desolate chambef]of the
soul, and with glaring eye marks its
passage cen adown the aisle of death.
1t digsthe0grsye of the suicide, and
hardens the couch Of the infdel.
What is anxiety? The souls un-
answered question. ggr3W
What is sorrow? The cup which
time fills.
o What is death? The SOULS re-
prievc from pain. - ctfrsa
But despair, what is that? A torch
kindled at the embers of expiring
hope, and laid upon the souls altar,
never consumes, but burns on the
sacrifice there, till the cold, cold
waters which bound life's pilgrimage
arise in their resistles billows, extin-
guish the fame and relieve the help
less victim.
Stepping into this Trcjan-circle 1
~ . ID. .
might wind to prolixity, but here
must the writer pause. s,as IN,
If | could hope that thou wouldst
come again, and we would once more
tread life's pathway hand in hand, |
would sit me down and watch and
weep until the form had dwindled to
a shadow, and all reason had melted
into happy expectation. But "neycrp'
It weakens my arm, and stills my
heart, and I had sunk beneath the
dreary present by thy side to sleep,
had not the golden key Of love un-
locked the ball Of memory, apd en-
tering I gaze upon the pictures there,
and cheat time with the fond fancy
that thou art still by my side, and
this, this awful truth, Is but a horrid
II
incubus Of the soul.
7 ] know that We shall meet again
10 that far-oif happy lsnd. Sweet
thought But OIL life i % sad
without thee. The stars are . pale
and the sun . dim 70 my tear-oloudet
leyc. There Is such q drsary waste
| such q barren desert % traverse er'
then. Do the souls q tIoss We los'
never return, ar DO they still re
member, and do they love us yet''
If 50, at the holy kosr Of twilight
/ will, ppon. my bended knee, eptpa
our hesseSB A@er that thoa msys
Be- my guardian angel; that the aut
'ltet Of thy white wing may sometime
cool my burning brow; and The todol
Iof thy soft hand still my threbbinI