DEATH
O. M. C ONOVER
The Dignity of Death.
Here lies a common man. His horny hands, Crossed meekly as a maid’s upon his breast, Show marks of toil, and by his general dress You judge him to have been an artisan.
Doubtless, could all his life be written out, The story would not thrill nor start a tear;
He worked, laughed, loved and suffered in his time, And now rests peacefully with upturned face, Whose look belies all struggles in the past.
A homely tale; yet, trust me, I have seen The greatest of the earth go stately by, While shouting multitudes beset the way, With less of awe. The gap between a king And me, a nameless gazer in the crowd,
Seemed not so wide as that which stretches now Betwixt us two — this dead one and myself.
Untitled, dumb and deedless, yet he is Transfigured by a touch from out the skies Until he wears, with all-unconscious grace, The strange and sudden dignity of death.
RICHARD E. BURTON.
The Christian View of Death.
My friends, I hope you do not call that death. That is an autumnal sunset.
That is a crystalline river pouring into a crystal sea. That is the solo of human life overpowered by the Hallelujah chorus. That is a queen’s coronation. That is Heaven. That is the way my father stood at eighty-two, seeing my mother depart at seventy-nine. Perhaps, so your father and mother went. I wonder if we will die as well.
— TALMAGE.
Two.
I dreamed I saw two angels, hand in hand;
— And very like they were, and very fair.
One wore about his head a golden band;
— A thorn-wreath crowned the other’s matted hair.
The one was fair and tall, and white of brow;
— A radiant spirit smile of wondrous grace Shed, like an inner altar-lamp, a glow
— Upon his beautiful uplifted face.
The other’s face, like marble-carved Grief,
— Had placid brows laid whitely o’er with pain, With lips that never knew a smile’s relief,
— And eyes like violets long drenched in rain.
Then spake the fair, sweet one and gently said:
— “Between us — Life and Death — choose thou thy lot.
By him thou lovest best thou shalt be led;
— Choose thou between us, soul, and fear thou not.”
I pondered long. “O Life!” at last I cried,
— “Perchance ‘t were wiser Death to choose; and yet My soul with thee were better satisfied.”
— The angel’s radiant face smiled swift regret.
Within his brother’s hand he placed my hand.
— Thou didst mistake,” he said, in underbreath, And, choosing life, didst fail to understand;
— He with the thorns is life, and I am Death.”
LAURA SPENCER PORTER.
Sweet is the thought that some day I shall rest.
Some day the good, glad sun will rise Above the crest
Of billowed hill in ocean skies, The world to bless, But it will greet my tired eyes
At rest — sweet rest.
Sweet is the thought that some night I shall sleep.
Some night the sorrowing stars will rise And peep
From out the mother skirt of nightly skies — But I shall weep
Not back within their answering eyes, For I shall sleep.
JOHN MOORE. Within Sight of the River.
I am coming to that stage of my pilgrimage that is within sight of the River of Death, and I feel that now I must have all in readiness day and night for the messenger of the King. I have sometimes in my sleep strange perceptions of a vivid spiritual life near to and with Christ and multitudes of holy ones, and the joy of it is like no other joy; it can not be told in the language of the world. What I have, then, I know with absolute certainty;
yet it is so unlike and above anything we conceive of in this world that it is difficult to put it into words. The inconceivable loveliness of Christ! It seems that about Him there is a sphere where the enthusiasm of love is the calm habit of the soul; that without words, without the necessity of demonstrations of affection, heart beats to heart, soul answers soul; we respond to the infinite love, and we feel His answer in us, and there is no need of words.
— HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
One Less.
One less at home!
The charmed circle broken; a dear face
Missed day by day from its accustomed place;
But, cleansed and saved and perfected by grace, One more in Heaven!
One less at home!
One voice of welcome hushed, and evermore One farewell word unspoken; on the shore
Where parting comes not, one soul landed more — One more in Heaven!
One less at home!
A sense of loss that meets us at the gate;
Within, a place unfilled and desolate;
And far away, our coming to wait One more in Heaven!
One less at home!
Chill as the earth-born mist the thought would rise And wrap our footsteps round and dim our eyes;
But the bright sunbeam darteth from the skies — One more in Heaven!
One more at home!
This is not home, where, cramped in earthly mold, Our sight of Christ is dim, our love is cold;
But there where face to face we shall behold, Is Home and Heaven!
One less on earth,
Its pain, its sorrow, and its toil to share.
One less the pilgrim’s daily cross to bear;
One more the crown of ransomed souls to wear At home in Heaven!
One more in Heaven!
Another thought to brighten cloudy days;
Another theme for thankfulness and praise;
Another link on high our souls to raise To home and Heaven!
One more at home!
That home where separation can not be;
That home whence none is missed eternally!
Lord Jesus, grant us all a place with Thee, At home in Heaven!
S. G. STOCK. Mourn Not the Dead.
Mourn not the dead who calmly lie
By God’s own hand composed to rest For, hark! A voice from yonder sky
Proclaims them blest — supremely blest.
With them the toil and strife are o’er;
Their labors end, their sorrows cease;
For they have gained the blissful shore Where dwells serene eternal peace.
Mourn not the dead, though like the flower Just opening to the morning ray, Nipped by disease’s cruel power,
They fell from love’s embrace away.
Where breathes no chill or tainted air, Where falls no darkness of the tomb, They prove the loving Savior’s care
And blossom in immortal bloom.
Mourn not the dead whose lives declare That they have nobly borne their part, For victory’s golden crown they wear,
Reserved for every faithful heart;
They rest with glory wrapped around, Immortals on the scroll of fame.
Their works their praises shall resound, Their name — an everlasting name.
Drop the warm tear — for Jesus wept;
Sorrow shall find relief in tears.
But let no secret grief be kept
To waste the soul through nameless years.
They rest in hope; their hallowed dust
Is watched, and from the grave shalt rise, Earth shall restore her sacred trust,
Made all immortal for the skies.
J. LOTON.