"God grant," said I, "she may be soothed by their kindness. Has she no attendant, John?"
"Yes sir, but my poor master said it was best not to trouble her when she is in her strange way."
I wound my way back slowly and mournfully from this house of sorrow. I have since passed from scene to scene; I have witnessed the agonies of many a breaking heart, and have been myself the subject of much sorrow and anguish; but never did I witness blight and desolation equal to that brought on the house of McCarthy by the murderous hand of Raymond.
E.
Henry County.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.
LINES.
| The dove of my bosom lies bleeding, The hopes I once cherished are fled, I gaze on their ruins unheeding, Earth's brightest is low with the dead. The eye that with rapture was beaming, Is clouded in silence and gloom, And those locks that like sunlight were gleaming, Are damp with the dews of the tomb. The smile that I sought as a treasure, Is gone with the being who gave To this bosom its throbbings of pleasure, And my heart is with her in the grave. * * * * * Above her the wild flowers are growing, They were nursed by the thoughts of her love, They are wet by the tears that are flowing, And shall flow, till I greet her above. |