THE DEATH-BED SCENE.[4]
I.Another tenant for Death’s charnel house!Another victim for Death’s banqueting!Ha! holds he not a glorious carouse?But, cruel Death! thy fangs have lost their sting;Thou hast no power to stay the spirit’s wing;Thou canst not bar its entrance to the skies;Thou canst but set it free, thou ghastly King!Thy touch doth man’s best part immortalize;The deathless spirit lives, when the poor body dies.II.Once more approach with me the bed of death;Come, see once more a fellow mortal die;’Tis not a doleful sight. The dying breathMay pass through lips that smile in ecstasy,And beams from Heaven may light the languid eye;With sudden burst the failing voice may striveTo join the sweet approaching melody,Heard when the angel messengers arriveTo bear the spirit hence, in Heaven’s own bliss to live.III.O, there are solemn hours which come to all;The bed of death is aye a solemn place;To see the saint asleep in Jesus fall,And leave the world with glory on his face—Or, to suppose a mournful, mournful case,To see the dying one with awful dreadMeet death, and call aloud for slighted grace,O, ’tis most solemn. They who mourn the dead,Know what religion is upon a dying bed.IV.And to the novice ’tis a fearful scene—The first sad interview with Death. To seeThe failure of that wonderful machine—Our mortal frame; when Death, pale enemy!Comes to the prison door, and turns the key,And tells the soul it has its freedom now.But O, the pangs! the parting agony!The clammy sweat that beads the suff’rer’s browDoth a sad evidence of nature’s anguish show.V.Man lives to die, as flowers bloom to fade;Expanded bloom is but incipient death;The rose that with the morning zephyr played,At eve lies scattered on the ground beneath;And flowers at eve that formed a living wreath,When morning beameth bright, all drooping lie,Cast on the ground to waste their fragrant breath,Or tell their story to the passer-by,That they, once highly prized, are cast aside to die.VI.Man, when he dies, is buried out of sight,But not forgotten. Few so friendless are,That some bewail not their untimely blight,Always untimely. Death can scarce unbarThe soul’s dark prison gates, and send afarTh’ unfetter’d spirit to its endless homeOf joy or woe, ere sounds discordant jarUpon the ear, and fill the heart with gloom,When wailing voices sound from mourners round the tomb.VII.We know that we must die. O, then, how strangeThat he, whose life is but a passing day,Should live regardless of his last great change!All earthly brightness soon must fade away;All earthly things are hasting to decay;And man, possess’d of an immortal soul,Lives to exalt his perishing mortal clay,Nor listens to the never ceasing tollOf hours he may regret while endless ages roll.VIII.For man is but the creature of a day;Dress’d for a little “pomp and circumstance,”He figures for awhile in grand display,Or on the stage, or in the mazy dance;While on the stage, he plays a vain romance;And while he dances, swift his moments fly!O, trifler, pause! for even now, perchance,With dart in hand, grim Death stands waiting by;For those who thus have lived, ’tis awful work—to die!IX.But sweet the dying chamber, where the saintA farewell bids to his mortality;What tongue can tell—what master hand can paintThe radiant glories of the upper sky,That burst upon the Christian’s dying eye!And even when he “dies, and gives no sign”—When nature sinks beneath her agony,Then comes the hope no fears can undermine,That he who lived so well, must die with joys divine.X.As the proud monarch of the forest falls,Even so it lies. And thus th’ immortal soul,When death has freed it from its prison walls,Shall hear the knell of its probation toll.For while eternal ages ceaseless roll,In realms above—or in the shades below,No fears shall chill—no flatt’ring hopes console;No change shall come, except that bliss or woeMore blissful or more woful still shall ever grow.XI.’Tis sunset. Fleecy clouds of rosy lightWith brilliant hues do tinge the western skies!The sun has left a track of radiance bright!Could mortal pencil catch those splendid dyes,How would the painter’s art in glory rise!Changing—still changing! change must come to allBeneath the sun; the sun which swiftly fliesOn wheels of fire, enshrouded in his pall,From his proud place on high, one day himself shall fall.XII.Slowly the tedious hours move alongWithin the sick man’s chamber. On his faceHas gathered paleness. Pearly drops are hungAround his pallid brow with mournful grace,By Death’s moist finger. In that cold embraceThe chills of death creep o’er each trembling limb;The noble form lies nearly motionless;The friends around flit by as in a dream;The throbbing heart grows cold; the speaking eye grows dim.XIII.Fever has done the work. He’s conquer’d now,And driven from the field. And this may be,This coldness—paleness—moisture on the brow,May only be the price of victory.It was a fierce encounter. Forced to flee,The dire disease exerted all his mightTo give the death blow to his enemy,Ere from the prostrate form he took his flight.’Twas needless—all his strength was yielded in the fight.XIV.Yet do they strive to raise the sinking frame,By every means within the healer’s art;To fan the dying embers to a flame,And kindle life within the cold, cold heart;The wife, with anxious care, seeks to impartWarmth to the clammy limbs; and gen’rous wineAnd sav’ry broths their tonic power exert;Kind sympathizing friends their efforts join,And still to Heaven’s high King they look for aid divine.XV.’Tis now the midnight’s calm and holy hour,When all the world is locked in sleep’s embrace,The fairy steals within the tiny flower,The nightingale sleeps in her resting place.None sleep within that chamber, where the faceGrows pale with watching—where the hand of deathIs laid on one of Adam’s sinful race—Where still the cold drops form a pearly wreath,And fainter, fainter grows the slowly heaving breath.XVI.’Tis strange that smiling Hope is even nowWhisp’ring her flatt’ries to the young wife’s heart!She wipes the death-damps from her husband’s brow,Which in his dying anguish freely start;But still she cannot feel that they must part,Nor see the stamp of death upon his cheek;O, Hope! a skilful flatterer thou art!For while the suff’rer grows more faint, more weak,Thy soft beguiling voice doth words of comfort speak.XVII.But, ah! there is no hope. The blow that fellUpon his heart, when his dear only sonDied in his arms—has done its work too well;The work disease already had begun!In that sad hour death marked him for his own;His feeble frame, unequal to the strifeWith strong disease already undergone,Must yield itself to Death. O, gentle wife!It is too late to call the dying back to life:XVIII.Yes—’tis indeed too late. All, all in vainTheir efforts to revive the dying one;Why should they seek the spirit to detain,Which may be free before the rising sun,Bowing with angels near Jehovah’s throne?No! rather say, “God speed thee to the skies,Thou who hast fought the fight—the battle won!Go—happy conqueror! go, take the prize!Go—weary wanderer! to Heaven and glory rise!”XIX.The hour has come—and now the dying manMust grapple with his mortal enemy;But unseen hosts, with Jesus in the van,Pale sufferer! will surely fight for thee!’Tis but one struggle more, and thou art free!O, trembling soul! thou’rt struggling into life!Yet there is meaning in thine agony;There’s reason for this last heart rending strife;Thou canst not bear to leave thine own beloved wife!XX.God will support her in her hour of need;She’ll have no friend but God to lean upon;He surely will not break the bruised reed,And bruised her heart will be when thou art gone!She will be left in this dark world—alone,Whilst thou to heavenly glory shalt ascend,Where dwelleth now thine own—thy sainted son;But He who calls himself the widow’s friendWill heal her broken heart, and all her steps attend.XXI.Hark! heard ye not that voice of mournful sound?Whence came that sudden, deep, heart breaking sigh?See! where the childless mourner may be foundWaiting to see her best beloved die!See there! O, see the speechless suff’rer lieGazing upon the face he loves so well!See fond affection beaming in his eye,That eye where love was ever wont to dwell!See how he vainly strives to say his last farewell!XXII.What trembling seizes on the stricken wife!She fears that they must part—for speechless nowAnd struck with death he lies;—the tide of lifeIs ebbing fast;—the pulses faint and slow,Tell that the blood has nearly ceas’d to flow;—There is a strange sad look in every eye;—The neighbors stand aside and whisper low;—The Doctor comes, and with a deep drawn sigh,He tells the startled wife that her dear love must die.XXIII.God help th’ afflicted one! the time had comeWhen she must bid delusive hope farewell;God help her ’neath his stroke still to be dumb,And open not her mouth; or if she tellHer tale of woe, to say that all is well;Amid her desolation and dismay,Safe in Jehovah’s shelt’ring arms to dwell.God help thee, mourner! now so far awayFrom father—mother—all—in thy distressful day.XXIV.Thy God is with thee. Mourner! raise thy head,And hear the words of love he speaks to thee;’Tis true thy earthly hopes and joys have fled,But God will more than child or husband be.She raises up her drooping head, and see!She looks on high! Her lips in prayer do move!She clasps her hands as if in agony!One pleading look she sends to Heaven above,Then thus with falt’ring voice says to her dying love,XXV.“O, canst thou not, my husband! speak to me?O, shall I hear that well known voice no more?My heart will break. O, God! I cry to thee,And in this awful hour thine aid implore.Deep calleth unto deep;—the waves do roar,Thy waves and billows, rushing o’er my head!God of all mercy! in this trying hour,Have pity on the work thy hands have made;May everlasting arms be underneath me spread.XXVI.O, speak once more, my husband! speak once more!See! ’tis thy Mary leaning over thee!Or, if to speak thy lips have lost their power,Just press my hand to tell thou knowest me.’Tis I, thy darling wife—see, loved one! see!O, God! what shall I do? he gives no sign;O, that I e’er should feel such agony!And yet his speaking eye is fix’d on mine;He knows me—Lord! for this I bless thy love divine!XXVII.Is Jesus precious to thy parting soul?O, press my hand if thou my voice canst hear,For while the waves of Jordan o’er thee roll,I’ll speak ofJesusin thy dying ear.I know that blessed name thy heart can cheer;Jesus can surely make thy dying bedFeel soft and sweet as downy pillows are,While on his breast thou lean’st thy fainting head,To breathe away thy life, till all thy life has fled.XXVIII.O, dearest! fear no evil; for thy GodThrough the dark vale thy falt’ring feet will guide;Death’s gloomy shade will soon be safely trod,With such a kind companion by thy side;Fear not, for he is with thee. Jordan’s tideCan never overwhelm thy trusting soul;Secure are they in Jesus who confide;Though storms arise, and raging billows roll,A mighty Friend is near, who can the storm control.XXIX.O, that I could, my dear, my dying love!Go with thee through the dark and dreary vale,Till thou hast spread thy wings and soar’d above,Till saints and angels loud thy coming hail!But ah! what could my presence there avail?What could I do to help thee on thy way,Or cheer thee if thy trembling heart should fail?Jesus, thy Captain, all thy foes can slay,His rod and staff alone must be thy strength and stay.XXX.Hark to celestial music! hear it, love!The angel hosts are speeding from the skies,To bear thy spirit to its home above!I see the sudden joy light up thine eyes!I see the beaming smile of glad surprise!What is it, darling! bursts upon thy view,That makes thee smile in death’s last agonies?O, would to God that I the myst’ry knew!Dear Savior! may not I go with my loved one too?XXXI.I, who have shared in every grief or joy,Which, at thy mandate, pour’d its tide uponThe bosoms of my husband and my boy!Well, still I’ll share their joy; and near thy throne,O, God be praised! no grief will e’er be known.No tear, my love! will tremble in thine eye,As I have seen it, when with falt’ring tone,And quiv’ring lip, and deep convulsive sigh,Thou’st told, with long embrace, thy boy and me, ‘Good bye.’”XXXII.Then paus’d the wife. But ever and anonShe raised her eyes, and moved her lips in prayer,Or laid her head beside the dying one,And whispered, “Jesus,” in her husband’s ear.Her face was pale, but not a single tearRoll’d down her cheek, or glisten’d in her eye;Upon her Father God she cast her care,And prayed that she his name might glorify;And thus he gave her strength to see her husband die.XXXIII.Shorter and shorter grew the heaving breath;Dimmer and dimmer grew the failing eye;Colder and colder grew the pearly wreathWhich seem’d the pallid brow to beautify,And sparkled there—a crown of victory!One groan—one gasp—the wife is left alone!She o’er him bends to catch his parting sigh,Then speaks aloud, with clear triumphant tone,“I wish thee joy, my love! my darling Charles! my own!”
I.Another tenant for Death’s charnel house!Another victim for Death’s banqueting!Ha! holds he not a glorious carouse?But, cruel Death! thy fangs have lost their sting;Thou hast no power to stay the spirit’s wing;Thou canst not bar its entrance to the skies;Thou canst but set it free, thou ghastly King!Thy touch doth man’s best part immortalize;The deathless spirit lives, when the poor body dies.II.Once more approach with me the bed of death;Come, see once more a fellow mortal die;’Tis not a doleful sight. The dying breathMay pass through lips that smile in ecstasy,And beams from Heaven may light the languid eye;With sudden burst the failing voice may striveTo join the sweet approaching melody,Heard when the angel messengers arriveTo bear the spirit hence, in Heaven’s own bliss to live.III.O, there are solemn hours which come to all;The bed of death is aye a solemn place;To see the saint asleep in Jesus fall,And leave the world with glory on his face—Or, to suppose a mournful, mournful case,To see the dying one with awful dreadMeet death, and call aloud for slighted grace,O, ’tis most solemn. They who mourn the dead,Know what religion is upon a dying bed.IV.And to the novice ’tis a fearful scene—The first sad interview with Death. To seeThe failure of that wonderful machine—Our mortal frame; when Death, pale enemy!Comes to the prison door, and turns the key,And tells the soul it has its freedom now.But O, the pangs! the parting agony!The clammy sweat that beads the suff’rer’s browDoth a sad evidence of nature’s anguish show.V.Man lives to die, as flowers bloom to fade;Expanded bloom is but incipient death;The rose that with the morning zephyr played,At eve lies scattered on the ground beneath;And flowers at eve that formed a living wreath,When morning beameth bright, all drooping lie,Cast on the ground to waste their fragrant breath,Or tell their story to the passer-by,That they, once highly prized, are cast aside to die.VI.Man, when he dies, is buried out of sight,But not forgotten. Few so friendless are,That some bewail not their untimely blight,Always untimely. Death can scarce unbarThe soul’s dark prison gates, and send afarTh’ unfetter’d spirit to its endless homeOf joy or woe, ere sounds discordant jarUpon the ear, and fill the heart with gloom,When wailing voices sound from mourners round the tomb.VII.We know that we must die. O, then, how strangeThat he, whose life is but a passing day,Should live regardless of his last great change!All earthly brightness soon must fade away;All earthly things are hasting to decay;And man, possess’d of an immortal soul,Lives to exalt his perishing mortal clay,Nor listens to the never ceasing tollOf hours he may regret while endless ages roll.VIII.For man is but the creature of a day;Dress’d for a little “pomp and circumstance,”He figures for awhile in grand display,Or on the stage, or in the mazy dance;While on the stage, he plays a vain romance;And while he dances, swift his moments fly!O, trifler, pause! for even now, perchance,With dart in hand, grim Death stands waiting by;For those who thus have lived, ’tis awful work—to die!IX.But sweet the dying chamber, where the saintA farewell bids to his mortality;What tongue can tell—what master hand can paintThe radiant glories of the upper sky,That burst upon the Christian’s dying eye!And even when he “dies, and gives no sign”—When nature sinks beneath her agony,Then comes the hope no fears can undermine,That he who lived so well, must die with joys divine.X.As the proud monarch of the forest falls,Even so it lies. And thus th’ immortal soul,When death has freed it from its prison walls,Shall hear the knell of its probation toll.For while eternal ages ceaseless roll,In realms above—or in the shades below,No fears shall chill—no flatt’ring hopes console;No change shall come, except that bliss or woeMore blissful or more woful still shall ever grow.XI.’Tis sunset. Fleecy clouds of rosy lightWith brilliant hues do tinge the western skies!The sun has left a track of radiance bright!Could mortal pencil catch those splendid dyes,How would the painter’s art in glory rise!Changing—still changing! change must come to allBeneath the sun; the sun which swiftly fliesOn wheels of fire, enshrouded in his pall,From his proud place on high, one day himself shall fall.XII.Slowly the tedious hours move alongWithin the sick man’s chamber. On his faceHas gathered paleness. Pearly drops are hungAround his pallid brow with mournful grace,By Death’s moist finger. In that cold embraceThe chills of death creep o’er each trembling limb;The noble form lies nearly motionless;The friends around flit by as in a dream;The throbbing heart grows cold; the speaking eye grows dim.XIII.Fever has done the work. He’s conquer’d now,And driven from the field. And this may be,This coldness—paleness—moisture on the brow,May only be the price of victory.It was a fierce encounter. Forced to flee,The dire disease exerted all his mightTo give the death blow to his enemy,Ere from the prostrate form he took his flight.’Twas needless—all his strength was yielded in the fight.XIV.Yet do they strive to raise the sinking frame,By every means within the healer’s art;To fan the dying embers to a flame,And kindle life within the cold, cold heart;The wife, with anxious care, seeks to impartWarmth to the clammy limbs; and gen’rous wineAnd sav’ry broths their tonic power exert;Kind sympathizing friends their efforts join,And still to Heaven’s high King they look for aid divine.XV.’Tis now the midnight’s calm and holy hour,When all the world is locked in sleep’s embrace,The fairy steals within the tiny flower,The nightingale sleeps in her resting place.None sleep within that chamber, where the faceGrows pale with watching—where the hand of deathIs laid on one of Adam’s sinful race—Where still the cold drops form a pearly wreath,And fainter, fainter grows the slowly heaving breath.XVI.’Tis strange that smiling Hope is even nowWhisp’ring her flatt’ries to the young wife’s heart!She wipes the death-damps from her husband’s brow,Which in his dying anguish freely start;But still she cannot feel that they must part,Nor see the stamp of death upon his cheek;O, Hope! a skilful flatterer thou art!For while the suff’rer grows more faint, more weak,Thy soft beguiling voice doth words of comfort speak.XVII.But, ah! there is no hope. The blow that fellUpon his heart, when his dear only sonDied in his arms—has done its work too well;The work disease already had begun!In that sad hour death marked him for his own;His feeble frame, unequal to the strifeWith strong disease already undergone,Must yield itself to Death. O, gentle wife!It is too late to call the dying back to life:XVIII.Yes—’tis indeed too late. All, all in vainTheir efforts to revive the dying one;Why should they seek the spirit to detain,Which may be free before the rising sun,Bowing with angels near Jehovah’s throne?No! rather say, “God speed thee to the skies,Thou who hast fought the fight—the battle won!Go—happy conqueror! go, take the prize!Go—weary wanderer! to Heaven and glory rise!”XIX.The hour has come—and now the dying manMust grapple with his mortal enemy;But unseen hosts, with Jesus in the van,Pale sufferer! will surely fight for thee!’Tis but one struggle more, and thou art free!O, trembling soul! thou’rt struggling into life!Yet there is meaning in thine agony;There’s reason for this last heart rending strife;Thou canst not bear to leave thine own beloved wife!XX.God will support her in her hour of need;She’ll have no friend but God to lean upon;He surely will not break the bruised reed,And bruised her heart will be when thou art gone!She will be left in this dark world—alone,Whilst thou to heavenly glory shalt ascend,Where dwelleth now thine own—thy sainted son;But He who calls himself the widow’s friendWill heal her broken heart, and all her steps attend.XXI.Hark! heard ye not that voice of mournful sound?Whence came that sudden, deep, heart breaking sigh?See! where the childless mourner may be foundWaiting to see her best beloved die!See there! O, see the speechless suff’rer lieGazing upon the face he loves so well!See fond affection beaming in his eye,That eye where love was ever wont to dwell!See how he vainly strives to say his last farewell!XXII.What trembling seizes on the stricken wife!She fears that they must part—for speechless nowAnd struck with death he lies;—the tide of lifeIs ebbing fast;—the pulses faint and slow,Tell that the blood has nearly ceas’d to flow;—There is a strange sad look in every eye;—The neighbors stand aside and whisper low;—The Doctor comes, and with a deep drawn sigh,He tells the startled wife that her dear love must die.XXIII.God help th’ afflicted one! the time had comeWhen she must bid delusive hope farewell;God help her ’neath his stroke still to be dumb,And open not her mouth; or if she tellHer tale of woe, to say that all is well;Amid her desolation and dismay,Safe in Jehovah’s shelt’ring arms to dwell.God help thee, mourner! now so far awayFrom father—mother—all—in thy distressful day.XXIV.Thy God is with thee. Mourner! raise thy head,And hear the words of love he speaks to thee;’Tis true thy earthly hopes and joys have fled,But God will more than child or husband be.She raises up her drooping head, and see!She looks on high! Her lips in prayer do move!She clasps her hands as if in agony!One pleading look she sends to Heaven above,Then thus with falt’ring voice says to her dying love,XXV.“O, canst thou not, my husband! speak to me?O, shall I hear that well known voice no more?My heart will break. O, God! I cry to thee,And in this awful hour thine aid implore.Deep calleth unto deep;—the waves do roar,Thy waves and billows, rushing o’er my head!God of all mercy! in this trying hour,Have pity on the work thy hands have made;May everlasting arms be underneath me spread.XXVI.O, speak once more, my husband! speak once more!See! ’tis thy Mary leaning over thee!Or, if to speak thy lips have lost their power,Just press my hand to tell thou knowest me.’Tis I, thy darling wife—see, loved one! see!O, God! what shall I do? he gives no sign;O, that I e’er should feel such agony!And yet his speaking eye is fix’d on mine;He knows me—Lord! for this I bless thy love divine!XXVII.Is Jesus precious to thy parting soul?O, press my hand if thou my voice canst hear,For while the waves of Jordan o’er thee roll,I’ll speak ofJesusin thy dying ear.I know that blessed name thy heart can cheer;Jesus can surely make thy dying bedFeel soft and sweet as downy pillows are,While on his breast thou lean’st thy fainting head,To breathe away thy life, till all thy life has fled.XXVIII.O, dearest! fear no evil; for thy GodThrough the dark vale thy falt’ring feet will guide;Death’s gloomy shade will soon be safely trod,With such a kind companion by thy side;Fear not, for he is with thee. Jordan’s tideCan never overwhelm thy trusting soul;Secure are they in Jesus who confide;Though storms arise, and raging billows roll,A mighty Friend is near, who can the storm control.XXIX.O, that I could, my dear, my dying love!Go with thee through the dark and dreary vale,Till thou hast spread thy wings and soar’d above,Till saints and angels loud thy coming hail!But ah! what could my presence there avail?What could I do to help thee on thy way,Or cheer thee if thy trembling heart should fail?Jesus, thy Captain, all thy foes can slay,His rod and staff alone must be thy strength and stay.XXX.Hark to celestial music! hear it, love!The angel hosts are speeding from the skies,To bear thy spirit to its home above!I see the sudden joy light up thine eyes!I see the beaming smile of glad surprise!What is it, darling! bursts upon thy view,That makes thee smile in death’s last agonies?O, would to God that I the myst’ry knew!Dear Savior! may not I go with my loved one too?XXXI.I, who have shared in every grief or joy,Which, at thy mandate, pour’d its tide uponThe bosoms of my husband and my boy!Well, still I’ll share their joy; and near thy throne,O, God be praised! no grief will e’er be known.No tear, my love! will tremble in thine eye,As I have seen it, when with falt’ring tone,And quiv’ring lip, and deep convulsive sigh,Thou’st told, with long embrace, thy boy and me, ‘Good bye.’”XXXII.Then paus’d the wife. But ever and anonShe raised her eyes, and moved her lips in prayer,Or laid her head beside the dying one,And whispered, “Jesus,” in her husband’s ear.Her face was pale, but not a single tearRoll’d down her cheek, or glisten’d in her eye;Upon her Father God she cast her care,And prayed that she his name might glorify;And thus he gave her strength to see her husband die.XXXIII.Shorter and shorter grew the heaving breath;Dimmer and dimmer grew the failing eye;Colder and colder grew the pearly wreathWhich seem’d the pallid brow to beautify,And sparkled there—a crown of victory!One groan—one gasp—the wife is left alone!She o’er him bends to catch his parting sigh,Then speaks aloud, with clear triumphant tone,“I wish thee joy, my love! my darling Charles! my own!”
I.
Another tenant for Death’s charnel house!Another victim for Death’s banqueting!Ha! holds he not a glorious carouse?But, cruel Death! thy fangs have lost their sting;Thou hast no power to stay the spirit’s wing;Thou canst not bar its entrance to the skies;Thou canst but set it free, thou ghastly King!Thy touch doth man’s best part immortalize;The deathless spirit lives, when the poor body dies.
Another tenant for Death’s charnel house!
Another victim for Death’s banqueting!
Ha! holds he not a glorious carouse?
But, cruel Death! thy fangs have lost their sting;
Thou hast no power to stay the spirit’s wing;
Thou canst not bar its entrance to the skies;
Thou canst but set it free, thou ghastly King!
Thy touch doth man’s best part immortalize;
The deathless spirit lives, when the poor body dies.
II.
Once more approach with me the bed of death;Come, see once more a fellow mortal die;’Tis not a doleful sight. The dying breathMay pass through lips that smile in ecstasy,And beams from Heaven may light the languid eye;With sudden burst the failing voice may striveTo join the sweet approaching melody,Heard when the angel messengers arriveTo bear the spirit hence, in Heaven’s own bliss to live.
Once more approach with me the bed of death;
Come, see once more a fellow mortal die;
’Tis not a doleful sight. The dying breath
May pass through lips that smile in ecstasy,
And beams from Heaven may light the languid eye;
With sudden burst the failing voice may strive
To join the sweet approaching melody,
Heard when the angel messengers arrive
To bear the spirit hence, in Heaven’s own bliss to live.
III.
O, there are solemn hours which come to all;The bed of death is aye a solemn place;To see the saint asleep in Jesus fall,And leave the world with glory on his face—Or, to suppose a mournful, mournful case,To see the dying one with awful dreadMeet death, and call aloud for slighted grace,O, ’tis most solemn. They who mourn the dead,Know what religion is upon a dying bed.
O, there are solemn hours which come to all;
The bed of death is aye a solemn place;
To see the saint asleep in Jesus fall,
And leave the world with glory on his face—
Or, to suppose a mournful, mournful case,
To see the dying one with awful dread
Meet death, and call aloud for slighted grace,
O, ’tis most solemn. They who mourn the dead,
Know what religion is upon a dying bed.
IV.
And to the novice ’tis a fearful scene—The first sad interview with Death. To seeThe failure of that wonderful machine—Our mortal frame; when Death, pale enemy!Comes to the prison door, and turns the key,And tells the soul it has its freedom now.But O, the pangs! the parting agony!The clammy sweat that beads the suff’rer’s browDoth a sad evidence of nature’s anguish show.
And to the novice ’tis a fearful scene—
The first sad interview with Death. To see
The failure of that wonderful machine—
Our mortal frame; when Death, pale enemy!
Comes to the prison door, and turns the key,
And tells the soul it has its freedom now.
But O, the pangs! the parting agony!
The clammy sweat that beads the suff’rer’s brow
Doth a sad evidence of nature’s anguish show.
V.
Man lives to die, as flowers bloom to fade;Expanded bloom is but incipient death;The rose that with the morning zephyr played,At eve lies scattered on the ground beneath;And flowers at eve that formed a living wreath,When morning beameth bright, all drooping lie,Cast on the ground to waste their fragrant breath,Or tell their story to the passer-by,That they, once highly prized, are cast aside to die.
Man lives to die, as flowers bloom to fade;
Expanded bloom is but incipient death;
The rose that with the morning zephyr played,
At eve lies scattered on the ground beneath;
And flowers at eve that formed a living wreath,
When morning beameth bright, all drooping lie,
Cast on the ground to waste their fragrant breath,
Or tell their story to the passer-by,
That they, once highly prized, are cast aside to die.
VI.
Man, when he dies, is buried out of sight,But not forgotten. Few so friendless are,That some bewail not their untimely blight,Always untimely. Death can scarce unbarThe soul’s dark prison gates, and send afarTh’ unfetter’d spirit to its endless homeOf joy or woe, ere sounds discordant jarUpon the ear, and fill the heart with gloom,When wailing voices sound from mourners round the tomb.
Man, when he dies, is buried out of sight,
But not forgotten. Few so friendless are,
That some bewail not their untimely blight,
Always untimely. Death can scarce unbar
The soul’s dark prison gates, and send afar
Th’ unfetter’d spirit to its endless home
Of joy or woe, ere sounds discordant jar
Upon the ear, and fill the heart with gloom,
When wailing voices sound from mourners round the tomb.
VII.
We know that we must die. O, then, how strangeThat he, whose life is but a passing day,Should live regardless of his last great change!All earthly brightness soon must fade away;All earthly things are hasting to decay;And man, possess’d of an immortal soul,Lives to exalt his perishing mortal clay,Nor listens to the never ceasing tollOf hours he may regret while endless ages roll.
We know that we must die. O, then, how strange
That he, whose life is but a passing day,
Should live regardless of his last great change!
All earthly brightness soon must fade away;
All earthly things are hasting to decay;
And man, possess’d of an immortal soul,
Lives to exalt his perishing mortal clay,
Nor listens to the never ceasing toll
Of hours he may regret while endless ages roll.
VIII.
For man is but the creature of a day;Dress’d for a little “pomp and circumstance,”He figures for awhile in grand display,Or on the stage, or in the mazy dance;While on the stage, he plays a vain romance;And while he dances, swift his moments fly!O, trifler, pause! for even now, perchance,With dart in hand, grim Death stands waiting by;For those who thus have lived, ’tis awful work—to die!
For man is but the creature of a day;
Dress’d for a little “pomp and circumstance,”
He figures for awhile in grand display,
Or on the stage, or in the mazy dance;
While on the stage, he plays a vain romance;
And while he dances, swift his moments fly!
O, trifler, pause! for even now, perchance,
With dart in hand, grim Death stands waiting by;
For those who thus have lived, ’tis awful work—to die!
IX.
But sweet the dying chamber, where the saintA farewell bids to his mortality;What tongue can tell—what master hand can paintThe radiant glories of the upper sky,That burst upon the Christian’s dying eye!And even when he “dies, and gives no sign”—When nature sinks beneath her agony,Then comes the hope no fears can undermine,That he who lived so well, must die with joys divine.
But sweet the dying chamber, where the saint
A farewell bids to his mortality;
What tongue can tell—what master hand can paint
The radiant glories of the upper sky,
That burst upon the Christian’s dying eye!
And even when he “dies, and gives no sign”—
When nature sinks beneath her agony,
Then comes the hope no fears can undermine,
That he who lived so well, must die with joys divine.
X.
As the proud monarch of the forest falls,Even so it lies. And thus th’ immortal soul,When death has freed it from its prison walls,Shall hear the knell of its probation toll.For while eternal ages ceaseless roll,In realms above—or in the shades below,No fears shall chill—no flatt’ring hopes console;No change shall come, except that bliss or woeMore blissful or more woful still shall ever grow.
As the proud monarch of the forest falls,
Even so it lies. And thus th’ immortal soul,
When death has freed it from its prison walls,
Shall hear the knell of its probation toll.
For while eternal ages ceaseless roll,
In realms above—or in the shades below,
No fears shall chill—no flatt’ring hopes console;
No change shall come, except that bliss or woe
More blissful or more woful still shall ever grow.
XI.
’Tis sunset. Fleecy clouds of rosy lightWith brilliant hues do tinge the western skies!The sun has left a track of radiance bright!Could mortal pencil catch those splendid dyes,How would the painter’s art in glory rise!Changing—still changing! change must come to allBeneath the sun; the sun which swiftly fliesOn wheels of fire, enshrouded in his pall,From his proud place on high, one day himself shall fall.
’Tis sunset. Fleecy clouds of rosy light
With brilliant hues do tinge the western skies!
The sun has left a track of radiance bright!
Could mortal pencil catch those splendid dyes,
How would the painter’s art in glory rise!
Changing—still changing! change must come to all
Beneath the sun; the sun which swiftly flies
On wheels of fire, enshrouded in his pall,
From his proud place on high, one day himself shall fall.
XII.
Slowly the tedious hours move alongWithin the sick man’s chamber. On his faceHas gathered paleness. Pearly drops are hungAround his pallid brow with mournful grace,By Death’s moist finger. In that cold embraceThe chills of death creep o’er each trembling limb;The noble form lies nearly motionless;The friends around flit by as in a dream;The throbbing heart grows cold; the speaking eye grows dim.
Slowly the tedious hours move along
Within the sick man’s chamber. On his face
Has gathered paleness. Pearly drops are hung
Around his pallid brow with mournful grace,
By Death’s moist finger. In that cold embrace
The chills of death creep o’er each trembling limb;
The noble form lies nearly motionless;
The friends around flit by as in a dream;
The throbbing heart grows cold; the speaking eye grows dim.
XIII.
Fever has done the work. He’s conquer’d now,And driven from the field. And this may be,This coldness—paleness—moisture on the brow,May only be the price of victory.It was a fierce encounter. Forced to flee,The dire disease exerted all his mightTo give the death blow to his enemy,Ere from the prostrate form he took his flight.’Twas needless—all his strength was yielded in the fight.
Fever has done the work. He’s conquer’d now,
And driven from the field. And this may be,
This coldness—paleness—moisture on the brow,
May only be the price of victory.
It was a fierce encounter. Forced to flee,
The dire disease exerted all his might
To give the death blow to his enemy,
Ere from the prostrate form he took his flight.
’Twas needless—all his strength was yielded in the fight.
XIV.
Yet do they strive to raise the sinking frame,By every means within the healer’s art;To fan the dying embers to a flame,And kindle life within the cold, cold heart;The wife, with anxious care, seeks to impartWarmth to the clammy limbs; and gen’rous wineAnd sav’ry broths their tonic power exert;Kind sympathizing friends their efforts join,And still to Heaven’s high King they look for aid divine.
Yet do they strive to raise the sinking frame,
By every means within the healer’s art;
To fan the dying embers to a flame,
And kindle life within the cold, cold heart;
The wife, with anxious care, seeks to impart
Warmth to the clammy limbs; and gen’rous wine
And sav’ry broths their tonic power exert;
Kind sympathizing friends their efforts join,
And still to Heaven’s high King they look for aid divine.
XV.
’Tis now the midnight’s calm and holy hour,When all the world is locked in sleep’s embrace,The fairy steals within the tiny flower,The nightingale sleeps in her resting place.None sleep within that chamber, where the faceGrows pale with watching—where the hand of deathIs laid on one of Adam’s sinful race—Where still the cold drops form a pearly wreath,And fainter, fainter grows the slowly heaving breath.
’Tis now the midnight’s calm and holy hour,
When all the world is locked in sleep’s embrace,
The fairy steals within the tiny flower,
The nightingale sleeps in her resting place.
None sleep within that chamber, where the face
Grows pale with watching—where the hand of death
Is laid on one of Adam’s sinful race—
Where still the cold drops form a pearly wreath,
And fainter, fainter grows the slowly heaving breath.
XVI.
’Tis strange that smiling Hope is even nowWhisp’ring her flatt’ries to the young wife’s heart!She wipes the death-damps from her husband’s brow,Which in his dying anguish freely start;But still she cannot feel that they must part,Nor see the stamp of death upon his cheek;O, Hope! a skilful flatterer thou art!For while the suff’rer grows more faint, more weak,Thy soft beguiling voice doth words of comfort speak.
’Tis strange that smiling Hope is even now
Whisp’ring her flatt’ries to the young wife’s heart!
She wipes the death-damps from her husband’s brow,
Which in his dying anguish freely start;
But still she cannot feel that they must part,
Nor see the stamp of death upon his cheek;
O, Hope! a skilful flatterer thou art!
For while the suff’rer grows more faint, more weak,
Thy soft beguiling voice doth words of comfort speak.
XVII.
But, ah! there is no hope. The blow that fellUpon his heart, when his dear only sonDied in his arms—has done its work too well;The work disease already had begun!In that sad hour death marked him for his own;His feeble frame, unequal to the strifeWith strong disease already undergone,Must yield itself to Death. O, gentle wife!It is too late to call the dying back to life:
But, ah! there is no hope. The blow that fell
Upon his heart, when his dear only son
Died in his arms—has done its work too well;
The work disease already had begun!
In that sad hour death marked him for his own;
His feeble frame, unequal to the strife
With strong disease already undergone,
Must yield itself to Death. O, gentle wife!
It is too late to call the dying back to life:
XVIII.
Yes—’tis indeed too late. All, all in vainTheir efforts to revive the dying one;Why should they seek the spirit to detain,Which may be free before the rising sun,Bowing with angels near Jehovah’s throne?No! rather say, “God speed thee to the skies,Thou who hast fought the fight—the battle won!Go—happy conqueror! go, take the prize!Go—weary wanderer! to Heaven and glory rise!”
Yes—’tis indeed too late. All, all in vain
Their efforts to revive the dying one;
Why should they seek the spirit to detain,
Which may be free before the rising sun,
Bowing with angels near Jehovah’s throne?
No! rather say, “God speed thee to the skies,
Thou who hast fought the fight—the battle won!
Go—happy conqueror! go, take the prize!
Go—weary wanderer! to Heaven and glory rise!”
XIX.
The hour has come—and now the dying manMust grapple with his mortal enemy;But unseen hosts, with Jesus in the van,Pale sufferer! will surely fight for thee!’Tis but one struggle more, and thou art free!O, trembling soul! thou’rt struggling into life!Yet there is meaning in thine agony;There’s reason for this last heart rending strife;Thou canst not bear to leave thine own beloved wife!
The hour has come—and now the dying man
Must grapple with his mortal enemy;
But unseen hosts, with Jesus in the van,
Pale sufferer! will surely fight for thee!
’Tis but one struggle more, and thou art free!
O, trembling soul! thou’rt struggling into life!
Yet there is meaning in thine agony;
There’s reason for this last heart rending strife;
Thou canst not bear to leave thine own beloved wife!
XX.
God will support her in her hour of need;She’ll have no friend but God to lean upon;He surely will not break the bruised reed,And bruised her heart will be when thou art gone!She will be left in this dark world—alone,Whilst thou to heavenly glory shalt ascend,Where dwelleth now thine own—thy sainted son;But He who calls himself the widow’s friendWill heal her broken heart, and all her steps attend.
God will support her in her hour of need;
She’ll have no friend but God to lean upon;
He surely will not break the bruised reed,
And bruised her heart will be when thou art gone!
She will be left in this dark world—alone,
Whilst thou to heavenly glory shalt ascend,
Where dwelleth now thine own—thy sainted son;
But He who calls himself the widow’s friend
Will heal her broken heart, and all her steps attend.
XXI.
Hark! heard ye not that voice of mournful sound?Whence came that sudden, deep, heart breaking sigh?See! where the childless mourner may be foundWaiting to see her best beloved die!See there! O, see the speechless suff’rer lieGazing upon the face he loves so well!See fond affection beaming in his eye,That eye where love was ever wont to dwell!See how he vainly strives to say his last farewell!
Hark! heard ye not that voice of mournful sound?
Whence came that sudden, deep, heart breaking sigh?
See! where the childless mourner may be found
Waiting to see her best beloved die!
See there! O, see the speechless suff’rer lie
Gazing upon the face he loves so well!
See fond affection beaming in his eye,
That eye where love was ever wont to dwell!
See how he vainly strives to say his last farewell!
XXII.
What trembling seizes on the stricken wife!She fears that they must part—for speechless nowAnd struck with death he lies;—the tide of lifeIs ebbing fast;—the pulses faint and slow,Tell that the blood has nearly ceas’d to flow;—There is a strange sad look in every eye;—The neighbors stand aside and whisper low;—The Doctor comes, and with a deep drawn sigh,He tells the startled wife that her dear love must die.
What trembling seizes on the stricken wife!
She fears that they must part—for speechless now
And struck with death he lies;—the tide of life
Is ebbing fast;—the pulses faint and slow,
Tell that the blood has nearly ceas’d to flow;—
There is a strange sad look in every eye;—
The neighbors stand aside and whisper low;—
The Doctor comes, and with a deep drawn sigh,
He tells the startled wife that her dear love must die.
XXIII.
God help th’ afflicted one! the time had comeWhen she must bid delusive hope farewell;God help her ’neath his stroke still to be dumb,And open not her mouth; or if she tellHer tale of woe, to say that all is well;Amid her desolation and dismay,Safe in Jehovah’s shelt’ring arms to dwell.God help thee, mourner! now so far awayFrom father—mother—all—in thy distressful day.
God help th’ afflicted one! the time had come
When she must bid delusive hope farewell;
God help her ’neath his stroke still to be dumb,
And open not her mouth; or if she tell
Her tale of woe, to say that all is well;
Amid her desolation and dismay,
Safe in Jehovah’s shelt’ring arms to dwell.
God help thee, mourner! now so far away
From father—mother—all—in thy distressful day.
XXIV.
Thy God is with thee. Mourner! raise thy head,And hear the words of love he speaks to thee;’Tis true thy earthly hopes and joys have fled,But God will more than child or husband be.She raises up her drooping head, and see!She looks on high! Her lips in prayer do move!She clasps her hands as if in agony!One pleading look she sends to Heaven above,Then thus with falt’ring voice says to her dying love,
Thy God is with thee. Mourner! raise thy head,
And hear the words of love he speaks to thee;
’Tis true thy earthly hopes and joys have fled,
But God will more than child or husband be.
She raises up her drooping head, and see!
She looks on high! Her lips in prayer do move!
She clasps her hands as if in agony!
One pleading look she sends to Heaven above,
Then thus with falt’ring voice says to her dying love,
XXV.
“O, canst thou not, my husband! speak to me?O, shall I hear that well known voice no more?My heart will break. O, God! I cry to thee,And in this awful hour thine aid implore.Deep calleth unto deep;—the waves do roar,Thy waves and billows, rushing o’er my head!God of all mercy! in this trying hour,Have pity on the work thy hands have made;May everlasting arms be underneath me spread.
“O, canst thou not, my husband! speak to me?
O, shall I hear that well known voice no more?
My heart will break. O, God! I cry to thee,
And in this awful hour thine aid implore.
Deep calleth unto deep;—the waves do roar,
Thy waves and billows, rushing o’er my head!
God of all mercy! in this trying hour,
Have pity on the work thy hands have made;
May everlasting arms be underneath me spread.
XXVI.
O, speak once more, my husband! speak once more!See! ’tis thy Mary leaning over thee!Or, if to speak thy lips have lost their power,Just press my hand to tell thou knowest me.’Tis I, thy darling wife—see, loved one! see!O, God! what shall I do? he gives no sign;O, that I e’er should feel such agony!And yet his speaking eye is fix’d on mine;He knows me—Lord! for this I bless thy love divine!
O, speak once more, my husband! speak once more!
See! ’tis thy Mary leaning over thee!
Or, if to speak thy lips have lost their power,
Just press my hand to tell thou knowest me.
’Tis I, thy darling wife—see, loved one! see!
O, God! what shall I do? he gives no sign;
O, that I e’er should feel such agony!
And yet his speaking eye is fix’d on mine;
He knows me—Lord! for this I bless thy love divine!
XXVII.
Is Jesus precious to thy parting soul?O, press my hand if thou my voice canst hear,For while the waves of Jordan o’er thee roll,I’ll speak ofJesusin thy dying ear.I know that blessed name thy heart can cheer;Jesus can surely make thy dying bedFeel soft and sweet as downy pillows are,While on his breast thou lean’st thy fainting head,To breathe away thy life, till all thy life has fled.
Is Jesus precious to thy parting soul?
O, press my hand if thou my voice canst hear,
For while the waves of Jordan o’er thee roll,
I’ll speak ofJesusin thy dying ear.
I know that blessed name thy heart can cheer;
Jesus can surely make thy dying bed
Feel soft and sweet as downy pillows are,
While on his breast thou lean’st thy fainting head,
To breathe away thy life, till all thy life has fled.
XXVIII.
O, dearest! fear no evil; for thy GodThrough the dark vale thy falt’ring feet will guide;Death’s gloomy shade will soon be safely trod,With such a kind companion by thy side;Fear not, for he is with thee. Jordan’s tideCan never overwhelm thy trusting soul;Secure are they in Jesus who confide;Though storms arise, and raging billows roll,A mighty Friend is near, who can the storm control.
O, dearest! fear no evil; for thy God
Through the dark vale thy falt’ring feet will guide;
Death’s gloomy shade will soon be safely trod,
With such a kind companion by thy side;
Fear not, for he is with thee. Jordan’s tide
Can never overwhelm thy trusting soul;
Secure are they in Jesus who confide;
Though storms arise, and raging billows roll,
A mighty Friend is near, who can the storm control.
XXIX.
O, that I could, my dear, my dying love!Go with thee through the dark and dreary vale,Till thou hast spread thy wings and soar’d above,Till saints and angels loud thy coming hail!But ah! what could my presence there avail?What could I do to help thee on thy way,Or cheer thee if thy trembling heart should fail?Jesus, thy Captain, all thy foes can slay,His rod and staff alone must be thy strength and stay.
O, that I could, my dear, my dying love!
Go with thee through the dark and dreary vale,
Till thou hast spread thy wings and soar’d above,
Till saints and angels loud thy coming hail!
But ah! what could my presence there avail?
What could I do to help thee on thy way,
Or cheer thee if thy trembling heart should fail?
Jesus, thy Captain, all thy foes can slay,
His rod and staff alone must be thy strength and stay.
XXX.
Hark to celestial music! hear it, love!The angel hosts are speeding from the skies,To bear thy spirit to its home above!I see the sudden joy light up thine eyes!I see the beaming smile of glad surprise!What is it, darling! bursts upon thy view,That makes thee smile in death’s last agonies?O, would to God that I the myst’ry knew!Dear Savior! may not I go with my loved one too?
Hark to celestial music! hear it, love!
The angel hosts are speeding from the skies,
To bear thy spirit to its home above!
I see the sudden joy light up thine eyes!
I see the beaming smile of glad surprise!
What is it, darling! bursts upon thy view,
That makes thee smile in death’s last agonies?
O, would to God that I the myst’ry knew!
Dear Savior! may not I go with my loved one too?
XXXI.
I, who have shared in every grief or joy,Which, at thy mandate, pour’d its tide uponThe bosoms of my husband and my boy!Well, still I’ll share their joy; and near thy throne,O, God be praised! no grief will e’er be known.No tear, my love! will tremble in thine eye,As I have seen it, when with falt’ring tone,And quiv’ring lip, and deep convulsive sigh,Thou’st told, with long embrace, thy boy and me, ‘Good bye.’”
I, who have shared in every grief or joy,
Which, at thy mandate, pour’d its tide upon
The bosoms of my husband and my boy!
Well, still I’ll share their joy; and near thy throne,
O, God be praised! no grief will e’er be known.
No tear, my love! will tremble in thine eye,
As I have seen it, when with falt’ring tone,
And quiv’ring lip, and deep convulsive sigh,
Thou’st told, with long embrace, thy boy and me, ‘Good bye.’”
XXXII.
Then paus’d the wife. But ever and anonShe raised her eyes, and moved her lips in prayer,Or laid her head beside the dying one,And whispered, “Jesus,” in her husband’s ear.Her face was pale, but not a single tearRoll’d down her cheek, or glisten’d in her eye;Upon her Father God she cast her care,And prayed that she his name might glorify;And thus he gave her strength to see her husband die.
Then paus’d the wife. But ever and anon
She raised her eyes, and moved her lips in prayer,
Or laid her head beside the dying one,
And whispered, “Jesus,” in her husband’s ear.
Her face was pale, but not a single tear
Roll’d down her cheek, or glisten’d in her eye;
Upon her Father God she cast her care,
And prayed that she his name might glorify;
And thus he gave her strength to see her husband die.
XXXIII.
Shorter and shorter grew the heaving breath;Dimmer and dimmer grew the failing eye;Colder and colder grew the pearly wreathWhich seem’d the pallid brow to beautify,And sparkled there—a crown of victory!One groan—one gasp—the wife is left alone!She o’er him bends to catch his parting sigh,Then speaks aloud, with clear triumphant tone,“I wish thee joy, my love! my darling Charles! my own!”
Shorter and shorter grew the heaving breath;
Dimmer and dimmer grew the failing eye;
Colder and colder grew the pearly wreath
Which seem’d the pallid brow to beautify,
And sparkled there—a crown of victory!
One groan—one gasp—the wife is left alone!
She o’er him bends to catch his parting sigh,
Then speaks aloud, with clear triumphant tone,
“I wish thee joy, my love! my darling Charles! my own!”
Charleston,June 13, 1841.
FOOTNOTE
[4]Charles E. Danadied in Bloomington, Iowa Territory, August 22, 1839, aged 35 years.“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”
[4]Charles E. Danadied in Bloomington, Iowa Territory, August 22, 1839, aged 35 years.
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”
“Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord.”