REFLECTIONS ON DEATH.Oneday—the sunbeams danced along the gladeAs lovers dance upon their bridal eve—I wandered to the wood, where all was bloom;The earth breathed fresh with fragrance, and the treesDropped, as it were, the dew of silent joy.I loved to listen to the song of birds,Whose music wild, yet sweet, came o'er the ear,Telling of ecstasy; and, more than all,I loved to view the flowers, those stars of earth,As stars are flowers of heaven, those glimpses brightOf a far higher, purer, lovelier world;Those day dreams of Creation, blooming wild,Scattered on earth, like angel-smiles in heaven.Oh! I was happy then, for all above,And all below, was fair, and pure, and bright;And then I thought that happier still I'd beIf my freed soul could fleet, as dew from grass,When the glad morning sun is shining forth,Passing so silently away from earth;If that were all—if death itself weredeath—But after death comes life, more true than this.I lay and listened to a wild bird's song,A little shining, singing, flutt'ring thing:Its song was full of sweetness and of love:When, lo! it fell before me on the ground,And found its grave among a bank of flowers—Who would not die, to find a grave so sweet?I ran and lifted it—'twas cold and stiff,And in its little heart an arrow soughtUnsanctified admittance, quivering there,Like an unwelcome messenger of fate.The spoiler came—I drew his arrow out,And threw it on the earth—he trod it down,As he passed onward in his careless path.And this is death! How sudden, and how strong!His harvest ne'er begins nor ends, for stillHis scythe is ready ere the corn is ripe,We cannot shun the stroke; but if preparedTo meet it when it falls, its sting is gone!Yet death itself is never terrible,But 'tis the thought of what comes after deathThat wakes the coward in the soul of man—Of man carnal and unregenerate.In the lone grave the body soon is clothedIn vileness, and this most delicate frameBecomes the food of worms, the gorging feastOf those vile particles of putresenceWe loathe in life to look at—which we spurnAnd trample on with horror.Pride, bend low!And meditate on this, that slimy worms,Gnome-like and insatiate epicures,Must feed on us to fulness, as on dainties,When we, like they themselves, become corruption!This is the pang, the poison, that makes darkThe brightest joys, and chills the warmest hopesOf all who look no farther than the grave,—That calms the laughing thought within the heart:This is the weapon that affrights the bold,Makes foolishness of wisdom, and createsThe fear of death, because it terminatesBut in corruption and the feast of worms.To go into the grave—if that were all,No one would shrink from it; but that the thoughtThat this fair form should formless be, the shapeBe shapeless, decomposed, and fall to nought,Preys on the mind, and hinders it from rest.And few there are who seek the saving peaceThat here can reconcile us to our doom.The soul remains entire, though in the graveThe body lies, and slowly wastes away.Then let us strive to find, through God's good grace,That faith by which alone the soul becomes"One perfect Chrysolite," and in Christ's blood,Relieved from stain of guilt, is rendered fitTo stand, approved, before a holy God.
Oneday—the sunbeams danced along the gladeAs lovers dance upon their bridal eve—I wandered to the wood, where all was bloom;The earth breathed fresh with fragrance, and the treesDropped, as it were, the dew of silent joy.I loved to listen to the song of birds,Whose music wild, yet sweet, came o'er the ear,Telling of ecstasy; and, more than all,I loved to view the flowers, those stars of earth,As stars are flowers of heaven, those glimpses brightOf a far higher, purer, lovelier world;Those day dreams of Creation, blooming wild,Scattered on earth, like angel-smiles in heaven.Oh! I was happy then, for all above,And all below, was fair, and pure, and bright;And then I thought that happier still I'd beIf my freed soul could fleet, as dew from grass,When the glad morning sun is shining forth,Passing so silently away from earth;If that were all—if death itself weredeath—But after death comes life, more true than this.I lay and listened to a wild bird's song,A little shining, singing, flutt'ring thing:Its song was full of sweetness and of love:When, lo! it fell before me on the ground,And found its grave among a bank of flowers—Who would not die, to find a grave so sweet?I ran and lifted it—'twas cold and stiff,And in its little heart an arrow soughtUnsanctified admittance, quivering there,Like an unwelcome messenger of fate.The spoiler came—I drew his arrow out,And threw it on the earth—he trod it down,As he passed onward in his careless path.And this is death! How sudden, and how strong!His harvest ne'er begins nor ends, for stillHis scythe is ready ere the corn is ripe,We cannot shun the stroke; but if preparedTo meet it when it falls, its sting is gone!Yet death itself is never terrible,But 'tis the thought of what comes after deathThat wakes the coward in the soul of man—Of man carnal and unregenerate.In the lone grave the body soon is clothedIn vileness, and this most delicate frameBecomes the food of worms, the gorging feastOf those vile particles of putresenceWe loathe in life to look at—which we spurnAnd trample on with horror.Pride, bend low!And meditate on this, that slimy worms,Gnome-like and insatiate epicures,Must feed on us to fulness, as on dainties,When we, like they themselves, become corruption!This is the pang, the poison, that makes darkThe brightest joys, and chills the warmest hopesOf all who look no farther than the grave,—That calms the laughing thought within the heart:This is the weapon that affrights the bold,Makes foolishness of wisdom, and createsThe fear of death, because it terminatesBut in corruption and the feast of worms.To go into the grave—if that were all,No one would shrink from it; but that the thoughtThat this fair form should formless be, the shapeBe shapeless, decomposed, and fall to nought,Preys on the mind, and hinders it from rest.And few there are who seek the saving peaceThat here can reconcile us to our doom.The soul remains entire, though in the graveThe body lies, and slowly wastes away.Then let us strive to find, through God's good grace,That faith by which alone the soul becomes"One perfect Chrysolite," and in Christ's blood,Relieved from stain of guilt, is rendered fitTo stand, approved, before a holy God.
Oneday—the sunbeams danced along the gladeAs lovers dance upon their bridal eve—I wandered to the wood, where all was bloom;The earth breathed fresh with fragrance, and the treesDropped, as it were, the dew of silent joy.I loved to listen to the song of birds,Whose music wild, yet sweet, came o'er the ear,Telling of ecstasy; and, more than all,I loved to view the flowers, those stars of earth,As stars are flowers of heaven, those glimpses brightOf a far higher, purer, lovelier world;Those day dreams of Creation, blooming wild,Scattered on earth, like angel-smiles in heaven.Oh! I was happy then, for all above,And all below, was fair, and pure, and bright;And then I thought that happier still I'd beIf my freed soul could fleet, as dew from grass,When the glad morning sun is shining forth,Passing so silently away from earth;If that were all—if death itself weredeath—But after death comes life, more true than this.I lay and listened to a wild bird's song,A little shining, singing, flutt'ring thing:Its song was full of sweetness and of love:When, lo! it fell before me on the ground,And found its grave among a bank of flowers—Who would not die, to find a grave so sweet?I ran and lifted it—'twas cold and stiff,And in its little heart an arrow soughtUnsanctified admittance, quivering there,Like an unwelcome messenger of fate.The spoiler came—I drew his arrow out,And threw it on the earth—he trod it down,As he passed onward in his careless path.And this is death! How sudden, and how strong!His harvest ne'er begins nor ends, for stillHis scythe is ready ere the corn is ripe,We cannot shun the stroke; but if preparedTo meet it when it falls, its sting is gone!Yet death itself is never terrible,But 'tis the thought of what comes after deathThat wakes the coward in the soul of man—Of man carnal and unregenerate.In the lone grave the body soon is clothedIn vileness, and this most delicate frameBecomes the food of worms, the gorging feastOf those vile particles of putresenceWe loathe in life to look at—which we spurnAnd trample on with horror.Pride, bend low!And meditate on this, that slimy worms,Gnome-like and insatiate epicures,Must feed on us to fulness, as on dainties,When we, like they themselves, become corruption!This is the pang, the poison, that makes darkThe brightest joys, and chills the warmest hopesOf all who look no farther than the grave,—That calms the laughing thought within the heart:This is the weapon that affrights the bold,Makes foolishness of wisdom, and createsThe fear of death, because it terminatesBut in corruption and the feast of worms.To go into the grave—if that were all,No one would shrink from it; but that the thoughtThat this fair form should formless be, the shapeBe shapeless, decomposed, and fall to nought,Preys on the mind, and hinders it from rest.And few there are who seek the saving peaceThat here can reconcile us to our doom.The soul remains entire, though in the graveThe body lies, and slowly wastes away.Then let us strive to find, through God's good grace,That faith by which alone the soul becomes"One perfect Chrysolite," and in Christ's blood,Relieved from stain of guilt, is rendered fitTo stand, approved, before a holy God.
Oneday—the sunbeams danced along the gladeAs lovers dance upon their bridal eve—I wandered to the wood, where all was bloom;The earth breathed fresh with fragrance, and the treesDropped, as it were, the dew of silent joy.I loved to listen to the song of birds,Whose music wild, yet sweet, came o'er the ear,Telling of ecstasy; and, more than all,I loved to view the flowers, those stars of earth,As stars are flowers of heaven, those glimpses brightOf a far higher, purer, lovelier world;Those day dreams of Creation, blooming wild,Scattered on earth, like angel-smiles in heaven.Oh! I was happy then, for all above,And all below, was fair, and pure, and bright;And then I thought that happier still I'd beIf my freed soul could fleet, as dew from grass,When the glad morning sun is shining forth,Passing so silently away from earth;If that were all—if death itself weredeath—But after death comes life, more true than this.
Oneday—the sunbeams danced along the glade
As lovers dance upon their bridal eve—
I wandered to the wood, where all was bloom;
The earth breathed fresh with fragrance, and the trees
Dropped, as it were, the dew of silent joy.
I loved to listen to the song of birds,
Whose music wild, yet sweet, came o'er the ear,
Telling of ecstasy; and, more than all,
I loved to view the flowers, those stars of earth,
As stars are flowers of heaven, those glimpses bright
Of a far higher, purer, lovelier world;
Those day dreams of Creation, blooming wild,
Scattered on earth, like angel-smiles in heaven.
Oh! I was happy then, for all above,
And all below, was fair, and pure, and bright;
And then I thought that happier still I'd be
If my freed soul could fleet, as dew from grass,
When the glad morning sun is shining forth,
Passing so silently away from earth;
If that were all—if death itself weredeath—
But after death comes life, more true than this.
I lay and listened to a wild bird's song,A little shining, singing, flutt'ring thing:Its song was full of sweetness and of love:When, lo! it fell before me on the ground,And found its grave among a bank of flowers—Who would not die, to find a grave so sweet?I ran and lifted it—'twas cold and stiff,And in its little heart an arrow soughtUnsanctified admittance, quivering there,Like an unwelcome messenger of fate.The spoiler came—I drew his arrow out,And threw it on the earth—he trod it down,As he passed onward in his careless path.
I lay and listened to a wild bird's song,
A little shining, singing, flutt'ring thing:
Its song was full of sweetness and of love:
When, lo! it fell before me on the ground,
And found its grave among a bank of flowers—
Who would not die, to find a grave so sweet?
I ran and lifted it—'twas cold and stiff,
And in its little heart an arrow sought
Unsanctified admittance, quivering there,
Like an unwelcome messenger of fate.
The spoiler came—I drew his arrow out,
And threw it on the earth—he trod it down,
As he passed onward in his careless path.
And this is death! How sudden, and how strong!His harvest ne'er begins nor ends, for stillHis scythe is ready ere the corn is ripe,We cannot shun the stroke; but if preparedTo meet it when it falls, its sting is gone!
And this is death! How sudden, and how strong!
His harvest ne'er begins nor ends, for still
His scythe is ready ere the corn is ripe,
We cannot shun the stroke; but if prepared
To meet it when it falls, its sting is gone!
Yet death itself is never terrible,But 'tis the thought of what comes after deathThat wakes the coward in the soul of man—Of man carnal and unregenerate.In the lone grave the body soon is clothedIn vileness, and this most delicate frameBecomes the food of worms, the gorging feastOf those vile particles of putresenceWe loathe in life to look at—which we spurnAnd trample on with horror.Pride, bend low!And meditate on this, that slimy worms,Gnome-like and insatiate epicures,Must feed on us to fulness, as on dainties,When we, like they themselves, become corruption!This is the pang, the poison, that makes darkThe brightest joys, and chills the warmest hopesOf all who look no farther than the grave,—That calms the laughing thought within the heart:This is the weapon that affrights the bold,Makes foolishness of wisdom, and createsThe fear of death, because it terminatesBut in corruption and the feast of worms.
Yet death itself is never terrible,
But 'tis the thought of what comes after death
That wakes the coward in the soul of man—
Of man carnal and unregenerate.
In the lone grave the body soon is clothed
In vileness, and this most delicate frame
Becomes the food of worms, the gorging feast
Of those vile particles of putresence
We loathe in life to look at—which we spurn
And trample on with horror.Pride, bend low!
And meditate on this, that slimy worms,
Gnome-like and insatiate epicures,
Must feed on us to fulness, as on dainties,
When we, like they themselves, become corruption!
This is the pang, the poison, that makes dark
The brightest joys, and chills the warmest hopes
Of all who look no farther than the grave,—
That calms the laughing thought within the heart:
This is the weapon that affrights the bold,
Makes foolishness of wisdom, and creates
The fear of death, because it terminates
But in corruption and the feast of worms.
To go into the grave—if that were all,No one would shrink from it; but that the thoughtThat this fair form should formless be, the shapeBe shapeless, decomposed, and fall to nought,Preys on the mind, and hinders it from rest.And few there are who seek the saving peaceThat here can reconcile us to our doom.The soul remains entire, though in the graveThe body lies, and slowly wastes away.Then let us strive to find, through God's good grace,That faith by which alone the soul becomes"One perfect Chrysolite," and in Christ's blood,Relieved from stain of guilt, is rendered fitTo stand, approved, before a holy God.
To go into the grave—if that were all,
No one would shrink from it; but that the thought
That this fair form should formless be, the shape
Be shapeless, decomposed, and fall to nought,
Preys on the mind, and hinders it from rest.
And few there are who seek the saving peace
That here can reconcile us to our doom.
The soul remains entire, though in the grave
The body lies, and slowly wastes away.
Then let us strive to find, through God's good grace,
That faith by which alone the soul becomes
"One perfect Chrysolite," and in Christ's blood,
Relieved from stain of guilt, is rendered fit
To stand, approved, before a holy God.