Classic Poem

In looking over the foregoing pages, I feel that sad indeed have been
my wanderings in the shady paths of life. The aged friends of my
childhood have been buried over again. The last sad parting from many
dear friends has been noted down; the deaths of sister, brother and
mother, have been noticed in sad rotation; grand-children have sprung
up, beside the way, flourished for a little season, then faded like
the pale, withering leaves of autumn, and passed away from earth
forever.

O, Memory, thy garland has indeed been entwined, with many a withered
flower, whose leaves though faded, emit a sweet fragrance to the
heart, and lead it to a purer, holier trust in heaven.

But there is a deeper shadow, a gloomier shade, a sadder spot upon
earth, than we have yet visited. It is the recently made grave of my
husband--the father of my children, who passed suddenly away, leaving
his afflicted family, bereft of his counsel, his watch care, and his
support.

As I stand in this sad spot, and gaze upon that lone grave, with
tearful eyes and a bursting heart, memory comes like a tide, throwing
over my soul the remembrances of the many--many years we have
journeyed on together, since our first acquaintance in academic
halls (for our intimacy first commenced in school), and all the sad
loneliness of the present presses like a weight upon me, crushing me
to the earth, and obscuring all the sunshine of earthly bliss.

How sad and desolate is the home from which some loved one has been
borne suddenly away, with the firm assurance that "the places that
once knew them shall know them no more forever."

The vacant seat at table, the return of their usual hour of arrival,
all places and all things remind us of the departed one, and bring
up harrowing remembrances of the past, that add deeper pangs to our
sorrow, and fill our hearts with more unendurable anguish, and suffuse
our cheeks with more scalding tears, as the stern reality presses upon
us, that it always must be thus.

Companion of my youth, can it be possible thy manly form is hid
beneath this grassy mound at my feet? that I never again shall hear
the sound of that voice, whose endearing tone won me to thy side,
to unite my destiny with thine, and float with thee over life's
tempestous ocean?

Rough, indeed, has been the passage, and many the adverse storms we
have encountered, during our thirty-two years companionship, and now,
way-worn and weary, the grave--the greedy grave claims thee for its
occupant. How sweet is the assurance "that the graves shall give up
their dead, and this mortal shall put on immortality." Yes, this dear
dust shall rise again, and be clothed in undying youth.

O, how stealthily the stern messenger came, laying low the form of the
strong man, ere we were aware of his danger. One week--one short week,
and yet to him a week of agonizing suffering, and all was over. Yet,
in that week, what a volume might be written, of deep, intense
thought and feeling, of fervent prayer and supplication, and tearful,
childlike submission to the divine will. Might be written did I say?
Is it not written--even in the book of God's remembrance? Neither sigh
or tear were unnoticed, or prayer unheard, by that God who careth for
us, and numbereth the very hairs of our heads. How often the prayer
ascended from the lips of the dying man, "O my Father, help me in this
my extremity," and it was indeed his hour of extreme necessity, for he
was wrestling with his last enemy.

A smile sat upon his countenance, even while struggling for that frail
life that was so soon to end, and it is now very evident to those
that were in attendance upon him, that he was more fully aware of his
situation than they. Every arrangement and every observation plainly
shows now that he had little, if any hope of recovery.

But still the attending physician spoke very encouragingly to him, and
to others, and so we hoped and believed he would yet be well.

He was grateful for every attention. Ere the disease (which was
pneumonia) assumed its most fearful aspect; a daughter, who was
watching by the bed, hearing him whisper, thought he was addressing
her; but bending over the pillow, she heard him say,

"Oh, my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me."

Then raising his clasped hands, said, fervently, "Nevertheless, not my
will, but thine be done." Towards morning, reason became dethroned,
and the bewildered imagination wandered in the land of shadows. There
was an extremely anxious expression of countenance, and he would look
earnestly upon his attendants, as though he thought we could relieve
him. He was incessantly springing from his bed in his struggles for
breath, and trying every new position that the extremity of his case
could possibly suggest, but all to no avail.

But why dwell upon the fearful scene? We have seen the little child
contending with the strong arm of the destroyer, and felt it was a
fearful thing for it to yield up its little life and pass forever away
from earth. But when we see the strong man cut suddenly down, the man
who has scarcely passed the meridian of life, we "feel how dreadful
'tis to die." The love of life is strengthened by years. There are
cords of association binding him to it, the rolling, restless tide of
business, with its fluctuations and its cares, sweeps over him, and
seems binding him to earth. The love of children, for whose welfare a
kind father has so long been mindful, and all the fond endearments of
home and kindred, are so many sacred ties binding him to life. But all
must be severed before the ruthless tyrant who conquers conquerers,
and has justly been styled, "the king of terrors."

And so it was in this case. Nature yielded reluctantly every advantage
gained by the fearful foe, 'till her energies were exhausted, and
sinking down in quiet slumber, she yielded the contest without a
struggle.

About eight o'clock on Thursday evening, a heavy stupor came over him,
and the fearful death-rattle warned us of the approach of the grim
messenger. We watched his failing breath with agonizing emotions. But
we turned from him one little moment, and when we turned again, the
lamp of life was extinguished. O, the fearful agonizing cry that arose
by that death bed, when we realized that the husband and father had
passed away, forever away. But while we wept and mourned, he slept on
unheeding. Death made little change in his countenance, and when he
was dressed in his accustomed clothing, and laid in his coffin, he
looked like a weary man taking rest in sleep.

It was a pleasant day in mid April that we bore him to his grave, and
laid him down beneath the green branches of the arbor vitae tree. How
many mournful thoughts pressed upon the heart, almost crushing out the
very life, as the mournful train followed him to that sacred spot. Who
that has looked into an open grave, and seen the coffin of the dearly
loved lowered into it, but has felt an indiscribable agony filling the
heart, and blotting out all the prospect of future earthly happiness?
And who that listens to the sound of the heavy, damp earth as it falls
upon the coffin, but will say, "oh, has earth another sound like
this?" And there we left the husband and the father reposing beneath
the tree his own hand had trained, and in the yard where he had spent
so many hours laboring to beautify the spot where he was so soon to
lie down in his last long sleep. By his side are the graves of the two
dear grand-children, who were wont to share in his caresses, and his
smiles. Silent now is their greeting, as the weary grandfather lays
down with them in the place of graves: But eternity! oh eternity!
how is the meeting there? Have they met? There are father, mother,
brothers, sister, and a long train of relatives from whom he has
been long separated. Have they recognized each other? O, bewildering
thoughts, be still, and cease your restless longings; "secret things
belong to God," and "what we know not now we shall know hereafter."
But now, while the soft winds of summer are gently sighing through the
branches of the arbor vitae tree that stands at the head of the grassy
mound that rises over the form of my buried husband, I see by his
side, the spot where, in all human probability, this frame will soon
be deposited, to sleep with him in death's silent halls, even as I
have journeyed with him through life. 'Till then, let me turn to
my mission, and endeavor by a faithful discharge of every duty,
to prepare for that time, and strive by a holy life and godly
conversation, to so influence my children, that they may all seek a
city not made with hands eternal, and in the heavens. And thus shall
be answered my daily prayer, that we may be a united family in heaven.

So we returned to the house beneath the mild radiance of a Sabbath
sun, to experience that awful void that death makes in the domestic
circle to which so many bereaved hearts can respond.