Staunton spectator. [volume] (Staunton, Va.) 1849-1896, 1868-12-22
She is Dying.

The following is sublimely beautiful and pa
thetic, and could only have been dictated by a
heart that has experienced all the bitterness that
is therein expressed. Who is the author we
know not, but suspect it is an extract from some
book. If anybody can read it without moisture
in their eyes and stones in their throat, they are
worthy of marble:
Hush She is dying The sunlight streams
through the window-the room is fragrant with
the Southern fowers-large milk white African
lilies-roses nightingale would stop to wor
ship cape iessamnes and camelias with their
large glossy leaves.
Through the open easements steals the faint,
musical tingle Of playing fountain; the light
tempered pleasantly by the rose curtains of en-
broidered satin, with halo bright as rain
bow.
1t is as if fresher sunshine were falling earth
ward on the bower of beauty.
The canary sings in his gilded cage-her Ca
nary; and the mocking bird raises his clear
notes higher and higher on the perfumed air.
Why do you clench your hands under the
nails and draw the rich rosy blood through the
thin quivering skin? Why do you grind your
teeth together and hiss between them that one
and that lady with her hands upon her bosom
is fair as any dream vision Of the painter.
Surely, nothing could be purer than that
broad, high brow; nothing brighter than those
curlS
And she loves you, too All yes, any one
can read that in the deep, violet eyes. raised so
tenderly to your own All f! that is it; your
young wife lovrs you. -
She linked to yours the existence Of an angel
when she knelt beside you at the marriage al
tar and placed her hand in yours.
For twelve long golden Summer months an
angel has walked or sat by your side, or slept
on your bosom.
You know it No mortal woman ever made
your heart bow before purity so divine.
No earthly embrace ever filled your soul with
the glory beyond the stars; no earthly smile
ever shone unchangingly above all noisesome
things as your earthworms call care and trouble.
She is an angel and other angels have been
singing to her in the long days Of this pleasant
June time.
Hush" you say, you can't shut the anthem
notes of Heaven from those unsealed ears
longer, lighter, swell the hymns Of the Sc
raphs brighter grows the smile on your young
wife's lips.
She whispers, Dearest, I'm almost home,
and am going to ask God to bless you p
But you cannot hear it-you turn way, and the
big tears gather in the violet eyes.
You had held her there on your bosom all
day-all night; are you tired? But you can't
answer. Closer, closer you clasp the slight fair
figure; painfully you press your lips to the cold
brow-Carrie is dead
What is it to you that the sunshine is bright;
what that its cheerful rays fall on the broad
lands-our lands? What is it now that she
can walk on them no more? And what is
death-her death? Few people knew her; no
wise president must be chosen to fill her place !;
no nation will raise monument to her mems
ory But she was yours great God of-curs.
yours, all
No, yours and Gods; and your years of joy
are over; she rests on His bosom now in
Heaven.
They have dug grave for her. Spring
flowers brighten over it, and the green grass
smiles with the daisies and vioets. You go
there, and sigh and pray, and ask God if you,
too, may come home And when no answer
comes your bright heart rises up in bitterness,
and with the bold, wicked words upon your
tongue you pause, for your guardian angel
looks down from heaven, and whispers,
"Hush -