The gold leaf. [volume] (Henderson, N.C.) 1881-1911, 1894-07-26
HENDERSON, n. Co. THURSDAY, 26, 1894.

years. HIS physicians commanded
him to rest but he continued his
watching until the light and luster of
one eye had gone out. AS soon as he
recovered from the effects of the
surgeons knife, he resumed his place
of watching, and his voice was again
heard pleading for his people.
How dramatic was the end Of this
great man. Wearied with the tolls
and burdens of life, he turned his
languid face Southwark to behold for
the last time the land he loved SO
we'll. For time the gentle zephyrs o.
Florida seem to have rekindled the
warming sparks OF life, but ah; too
late; his day is done. A premature
grave opens to receive him and he is
ready to sink into its peaceful bosom.
Back to Washington he goes, and
there in the Nations Capital, in the
heart OF his country, he fell into that
gentle sleep from which there is no
waking and his name is added to the
roll of the deathless dead.
o beloved Vance why hast thou
left us at this critical hour, when
bribes are tearing out the props from
under our government and politicians
are bowling to the god of gold? Come
back, Zeb Vance, and bring relief to
your suffering people. Give us your
wise counsel and let us hear once more
your commanding voice and we will
heed it. Come back and lead US
through another great crisis. Drive
away political corruption and prohibit
money from ruling this fair land.
Come back, O trusted son of North
Carolina, and throw yourself in the
breach and draw your people together
once more. Reanimate in US a
greater love for our country and race.
Come back, Zeb Vance, and take
hold of the wheel that guides the ship
of State and carry US over this troubled
sea.
But alas, our call is vain. His
career is ended " life's taper has burnt
out"
The red streaks that fingered after
the setting sun are just receding in
the Western sky. The mountains put
on their dark robes in mourning for
the dead statesman whose body is
being borne to its last resting place
amid the crags and peaks that knew
him in his childhood. One by one
the sad, trembling stars come out to
take their stand as sentinels of the
night. The moon ushers from the
east and peering over the mountain
tops, sheds her melancholy light upon
the solemn scene. The funeral train
winds its upward way. All nature is
wrapt in slumber, and the balmy
stiffness is only now and then broken
by the whistle of the engine as it echoes
and re-echoes and dies away among
the deep gorges and valleys below.
At every step along the way tear
stained eyes and bleeding hearts are
keeping vigil, hoping to get a last look
into his kind face and add a floral
tribute to his memory.
Tonight his body rests on the noun
tain side near the ceaseless melody of
the French Broad and in the shade of
the eternal towers of the Blue Ridge,
but his love was stronger than death.
1t can never die. You may build him
a monument if you wish, but he needs
no princely dome or stately pyramid
to preserve his memory. Long after
marble shafts have crumbled into dust
he will continue to speak to his people
by the majesty of this memory and the
power of his example.
E. K. MCLARTY.
Monroe, N. C.