My little boy went first, but alas did not survive. I followed three days later, but there I also died. And scores of thousands cried. Who am I?

From American South, these sounds came, before rock was all the rage. Smooth and full of soul, with trombone and drumroll. Every night and every day, they played the trumpets down by the bay.

I have a face, but I do not have a nose. I am known for my riddles.

I am more than just a zodiac sign. I shine with ancient stories, but I am not a book. I guide the lost, but I am not a compass. People think of me as a pattern in the stars.

I may be a goddess, or simply a thought, I’m chased when I’m present, missed when I’m not. To ponder, to wonder, or someone to use, I carry all meanings, for I am a...?