THE SECOND BURIAL.

All-conqu’ring Love!Thou mak’st the heart of gentle woman strong!All-cheering Faith! thou hast a magic powerTo win the soul away from haggard grief!On the pure surface of the calm blue sky,Thou paintest Heaven’s glories with a touchSurpassing mortal genius, and with artMost wonderful, dost lure the tearful eyeAway from the attractions of the tomb,Where earthly hopes and joys lie sepulchred.What sweet amazement seizes on the soul,When these celestial visions greet the eye!The ambient air seems full of harmony,As though ten thousand angel visitorsWere hov’ring round th’ afflicted one, to cheerWith Heaven’s softest, sweetest melodies,Her mourning heart.The evening hour had thrownDark length’ning shadows on the verdant earth,And men had gather’d to the burial.Women were there, with hearts of sympathyFor the bereaved; and rosy children tooGazed up into the mourner’s marble face,With troubled looks of awe, and wonder’d whyShe was alone, and where the lovely boyWhom they had ever seen beside her—was.The mother brought her babe, and when it cried,Alarm’d at her unwonted gravity,She press’d it closer to her swelling breast,And hush’d its plaintive voice—or stole away,Fearing ’twould wring the stricken mother’s heartTo hear a baby cry. So delicateAnd tender hearted is true sympathy!But she was dead to every earthly sound;Her senses were in Heaven. Her last long look,A mournful look of thrilling tenderness,She had just taken of the silent formOf him she loved; and now her eyes were fix’dOn that same form reanimate in Heaven,Cloth’d in celestial splendors. AnxiouslyTh’ assembled crowd gazed on the mourner’s face,And look’d to see her hang her fainting head,Whene’er they closed the coffin lid—but, ah!They did not know the superhuman powerThat was at work within her. It was strange,But it was true, that she was seen to smileWhen she was ask’d if she would look once moreUpon her husband’s corse, ere it was hidForever from her view. Yes, she did smileA strange unearthly smile, and softly said,“I will not look again.” Then did they placeThe envious cover o’er that noble form,And screw it firmly down. Yet still she satAnd gently rock’d her in the cushion’d chair,And her closed eyes did shed no tear. Her handsAll peacefully were clasped upon her knee,Nor did the fingers tremble.All was stillWithin that solemn chamber of the dead.They waited for the minister of God,To do the last sad offices of earth;And yet he came not. Moments pass’d away,Until an hour had mark’d its silent flight,With longer, darker shadows on the ground.’Twas time they had convey’d, with solemn tread,The body to its home, ere night should drawHer curtain round the world. Where linger’d heWho should be at the burial of the dead?He comes not—and they fear he will not come.Then one who knew and loved the dear deceas’d,An elder in the church of which he wasA member, forward came, and with a voiceAll tremulous from deep emotion, readA chapter from the holy word of God.Twas from Corinthians, where th’ apostle PaulSpeaks of the resurrection from the dead,In language borrowed from the court of Heaven.The solemn deep toned voice of him who read,Reach’d every ear, and thrill’d to every heart.These were the words: “And how say some of youThere is no resurrection of the dead?For if there be no resurrection, thenIs Christ not ris’n; and if Christ be not ris’n,Then is our preaching vain,—and faith is vain;And we are found false witnesses of God,Because that we have testified of God,That he did raise up Christ;—whom if the deadRise not, he raised not up. For if the deadRise not, Christ is not raised; and if Christ be not raised,Your faith is vain, and ye are in your sins.And also they which are asleep in ChristAre perish’d. If in this sad life aloneWe have a hope in Christ, we are of allMost miserable men. But now the LordIs risen from the dead, and has becomeFirst fruits of them that slept. For since by manCame death, by man has also comeThe resurrection of the dead. For asIn Adam all men die, even so in ChristShall all be made alive. But every manIn his own order; Christ the earliest fruits,And afterwards they that belong to Christ,At his lastcoming. And then comes the end,When he shall have deliver’d up to GodThe kingdom—when all rule, and power,And all authority, he shall put down.For he must reign till all his enemiesUnder his feet are laid. The enemyThat last of all shall be destroy’d, is Death.

All-conqu’ring Love!

Thou mak’st the heart of gentle woman strong!

All-cheering Faith! thou hast a magic power

To win the soul away from haggard grief!

On the pure surface of the calm blue sky,

Thou paintest Heaven’s glories with a touch

Surpassing mortal genius, and with art

Most wonderful, dost lure the tearful eye

Away from the attractions of the tomb,

Where earthly hopes and joys lie sepulchred.

What sweet amazement seizes on the soul,

When these celestial visions greet the eye!

The ambient air seems full of harmony,

As though ten thousand angel visitors

Were hov’ring round th’ afflicted one, to cheer

With Heaven’s softest, sweetest melodies,

Her mourning heart.

The evening hour had thrownDark length’ning shadows on the verdant earth,And men had gather’d to the burial.Women were there, with hearts of sympathyFor the bereaved; and rosy children tooGazed up into the mourner’s marble face,With troubled looks of awe, and wonder’d whyShe was alone, and where the lovely boyWhom they had ever seen beside her—was.The mother brought her babe, and when it cried,Alarm’d at her unwonted gravity,She press’d it closer to her swelling breast,And hush’d its plaintive voice—or stole away,Fearing ’twould wring the stricken mother’s heartTo hear a baby cry. So delicateAnd tender hearted is true sympathy!

The evening hour had thrown

Dark length’ning shadows on the verdant earth,

And men had gather’d to the burial.

Women were there, with hearts of sympathy

For the bereaved; and rosy children too

Gazed up into the mourner’s marble face,

With troubled looks of awe, and wonder’d why

She was alone, and where the lovely boy

Whom they had ever seen beside her—was.

The mother brought her babe, and when it cried,

Alarm’d at her unwonted gravity,

She press’d it closer to her swelling breast,

And hush’d its plaintive voice—or stole away,

Fearing ’twould wring the stricken mother’s heart

To hear a baby cry. So delicate

And tender hearted is true sympathy!

But she was dead to every earthly sound;Her senses were in Heaven. Her last long look,A mournful look of thrilling tenderness,She had just taken of the silent formOf him she loved; and now her eyes were fix’dOn that same form reanimate in Heaven,Cloth’d in celestial splendors. AnxiouslyTh’ assembled crowd gazed on the mourner’s face,And look’d to see her hang her fainting head,Whene’er they closed the coffin lid—but, ah!They did not know the superhuman powerThat was at work within her. It was strange,But it was true, that she was seen to smileWhen she was ask’d if she would look once moreUpon her husband’s corse, ere it was hidForever from her view. Yes, she did smileA strange unearthly smile, and softly said,“I will not look again.” Then did they placeThe envious cover o’er that noble form,And screw it firmly down. Yet still she satAnd gently rock’d her in the cushion’d chair,And her closed eyes did shed no tear. Her handsAll peacefully were clasped upon her knee,Nor did the fingers tremble.

But she was dead to every earthly sound;

Her senses were in Heaven. Her last long look,

A mournful look of thrilling tenderness,

She had just taken of the silent form

Of him she loved; and now her eyes were fix’d

On that same form reanimate in Heaven,

Cloth’d in celestial splendors. Anxiously

Th’ assembled crowd gazed on the mourner’s face,

And look’d to see her hang her fainting head,

Whene’er they closed the coffin lid—but, ah!

They did not know the superhuman power

That was at work within her. It was strange,

But it was true, that she was seen to smile

When she was ask’d if she would look once more

Upon her husband’s corse, ere it was hid

Forever from her view. Yes, she did smile

A strange unearthly smile, and softly said,

“I will not look again.” Then did they place

The envious cover o’er that noble form,

And screw it firmly down. Yet still she sat

And gently rock’d her in the cushion’d chair,

And her closed eyes did shed no tear. Her hands

All peacefully were clasped upon her knee,

Nor did the fingers tremble.

All was stillWithin that solemn chamber of the dead.They waited for the minister of God,To do the last sad offices of earth;And yet he came not. Moments pass’d away,Until an hour had mark’d its silent flight,With longer, darker shadows on the ground.’Twas time they had convey’d, with solemn tread,The body to its home, ere night should drawHer curtain round the world. Where linger’d heWho should be at the burial of the dead?He comes not—and they fear he will not come.

All was still

Within that solemn chamber of the dead.

They waited for the minister of God,

To do the last sad offices of earth;

And yet he came not. Moments pass’d away,

Until an hour had mark’d its silent flight,

With longer, darker shadows on the ground.

’Twas time they had convey’d, with solemn tread,

The body to its home, ere night should draw

Her curtain round the world. Where linger’d he

Who should be at the burial of the dead?

He comes not—and they fear he will not come.

Then one who knew and loved the dear deceas’d,An elder in the church of which he wasA member, forward came, and with a voiceAll tremulous from deep emotion, readA chapter from the holy word of God.Twas from Corinthians, where th’ apostle PaulSpeaks of the resurrection from the dead,In language borrowed from the court of Heaven.The solemn deep toned voice of him who read,Reach’d every ear, and thrill’d to every heart.These were the words: “And how say some of youThere is no resurrection of the dead?For if there be no resurrection, thenIs Christ not ris’n; and if Christ be not ris’n,Then is our preaching vain,—and faith is vain;And we are found false witnesses of God,Because that we have testified of God,That he did raise up Christ;—whom if the deadRise not, he raised not up. For if the deadRise not, Christ is not raised; and if Christ be not raised,Your faith is vain, and ye are in your sins.And also they which are asleep in ChristAre perish’d. If in this sad life aloneWe have a hope in Christ, we are of allMost miserable men. But now the LordIs risen from the dead, and has becomeFirst fruits of them that slept. For since by manCame death, by man has also comeThe resurrection of the dead. For asIn Adam all men die, even so in ChristShall all be made alive. But every manIn his own order; Christ the earliest fruits,And afterwards they that belong to Christ,At his lastcoming. And then comes the end,When he shall have deliver’d up to GodThe kingdom—when all rule, and power,And all authority, he shall put down.For he must reign till all his enemiesUnder his feet are laid. The enemyThat last of all shall be destroy’d, is Death.

Then one who knew and loved the dear deceas’d,

An elder in the church of which he was

A member, forward came, and with a voice

All tremulous from deep emotion, read

A chapter from the holy word of God.

Twas from Corinthians, where th’ apostle Paul

Speaks of the resurrection from the dead,

In language borrowed from the court of Heaven.

The solemn deep toned voice of him who read,

Reach’d every ear, and thrill’d to every heart.

These were the words: “And how say some of you

There is no resurrection of the dead?

For if there be no resurrection, then

Is Christ not ris’n; and if Christ be not ris’n,

Then is our preaching vain,—and faith is vain;

And we are found false witnesses of God,

Because that we have testified of God,

That he did raise up Christ;—whom if the dead

Rise not, he raised not up. For if the dead

Rise not, Christ is not raised; and if Christ be not raised,

Your faith is vain, and ye are in your sins.

And also they which are asleep in Christ

Are perish’d. If in this sad life alone

We have a hope in Christ, we are of all

Most miserable men. But now the Lord

Is risen from the dead, and has become

First fruits of them that slept. For since by man

Came death, by man has also come

The resurrection of the dead. For as

In Adam all men die, even so in Christ

Shall all be made alive. But every man

In his own order; Christ the earliest fruits,

And afterwards they that belong to Christ,

At his lastcoming. And then comes the end,

When he shall have deliver’d up to God

The kingdom—when all rule, and power,

And all authority, he shall put down.

For he must reign till all his enemies

Under his feet are laid. The enemy

That last of all shall be destroy’d, is Death.

All flesh is not the same. There is one kindOf flesh, of men; another flesh of beasts;Another flesh of fishes; and of birds:There are celestial bodies; and there areTerrestrial; but their glories are not one:There also is one glory of the sun;One glory of the moon; one of the stars;For one star diff’reth from another star.So is the resurrection of the dead;’Tis in corruption sown, but it is raisedIn incorruption; in dishonor sown,’Tis raised in glory; ’tis in weakness sown,’Tis raised in power; a body natural’Tis sown, ’tis raised a spiritual one.For it is written thus; Adam, the first,Was made a living soul; Adam, the last,Was made a quick’ning spirit. Of the earthEarthy, the first man is; the second man,He is the Lord from Heaven. As we have borneThe image of the earthly, we shall bearThe image of the heavenly. Now, behold!A mystery I show; all shall not sleep;But we shall all be chang’d, at the last trump,In a moment—in the twinkling of an eye.The trump shall sound—the dead shall all be rais’d.Thenincorruptible; and we shall allBe quickly changed. For this corruptibleMust put on incorruption, and this mortalPut on immortality. So whenCorruptible has put on incorruption—And mortal put on immortality,Then what is written shall be brought to pass,That death is swallow’d up in victory.O, Death! where is thy sting? O, Grave! where isThy victory? The sting of death is sin;The strength of sin, the law; but unto GodBe thanks, who giveth us the victory,Through Jesus Christ our Lord!” Amen! Amen!What glorious words are these! The Bible speaksTo souls that are afflicted with a forceAnd emphasis unknown before. The waxWhen duly soften’d, will receive and keepThe beautiful impression—and the heartTried in affliction’s furnace, will be madeTo picture the refiner’s countenance,Reflected sweetly there.The mourner heardThese things, with joy unspeakable, and peaceThat passeth understanding. Every wordWas music to her ear, and healing balmTo her poor bleeding heart. The drowning manWill grasp for life at every floating straw;And so the mourner, of all joy bereft,Will catch at every hope the gospel gives.The reader closed the book, and sat him down;And then the mourner call’d him to her sideWith silent beckon. In her hand she heldA little volume—’twas the same sweet bookHad been her kind companion all the day;It was the hymn book given her by himWho now lay coffin’d there. She pointed outA certain hymn, and begg’d it might be sung;For at her darling sister’s distant grave,In dear New Haven, it was sweetly sungBut two short years before. The young and fair,The brave and beautiful, had chanted itAround her early grave, with swelling hearts,And many a falling tear. For she was lovedBy all who knew her, and they knew her wellIn sweet New Haven. ’Twas a favorite placeWhere these two sisters loved to walk aloneAnd commune with the dead; for very nearThe sacred spot where now her form was laid,Two much loved friends were sleeping side by side—The gifted Martha, and the lovely Jane.[5]And he who once had led her ardent mindIn search of knowledge[6]—he too slept withinThat peaceful grave yard. O, he was a manWhose like is seldom seen on earth; all, allWho ever knew him will his name revere,Till they shall meet him in the realms of bliss,Who ever sought to lead them to the skies.Peace to the mem’ry of the holy man!A father and a mother weeping stoodBeside her grave—one sister on a bedOf sickness lay, not very far remote;And one was at her distant southern home:O, she had yet to hear the sad, sad news!An only brother, very near in age,Who loved her as himself—and more; he stoodWith folded arms and drooping head, and sawHis darling sister hidden from his viewBy the dark envious grave. But he has goneTo meet her in her everlasting home!In distant Alabama’s friendly soil,He found a grave! They were too pure for earth;And ’tis not saying they were wholly pure,To say thus much—for when th’ immortal soulHas bathed itself so freely in the bloodOf Jesus, that its stains of sin grow pale,God always calls the spirit to himself,To take its station near his own bright throne.It could not breathe the atmosphere of earthWhen it is purified and fit for Heaven.But while it lives on earth ’tis human still,And therefore sinful.Round the open graveOf her who died so far away from home,How grateful to the mourning bosoms there,The friendly sympathy of old and young!Cold hearted and unfriendly call ye these—The natives of the north? It is not so;My fellow Southrons! If the hand of GodShall ever lay you low, when far from home,Among your breth’ren of the frozen north,I know, dear friends! I know ye’ll see them shedWith the dejected mourner, tear for tear.Sweetly the voices round that young girl’s grave,Peal’d forth a solemn dirge. Now swell’d it highIn lofty strains; and now in cadence soft,It seem’d to die away upon the ear;Then would it swell again, and reach the skies,And seem to mingle with the music there.Now where the Mississippi proudly roll’dIts world of waters to the distant sea,That dirge was sung again. The words were these:“Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb!Take this new treasure to thy trust;And give these sacred relics roomTo slumber in the silent dust.No pain, nor grief, nor anxious fearInvades thy bounds; no mortal woesCan reach the lowly sleeper here,While angels watch the soft repose.So Jesus slept; God’s dying SonPass’d through the grave, and bless’d the bed:Rest here, blest saint! till from his throneThe morning break, and pierce the shade.Break from his throne, illustrious morn!Attend, O, earth, his sov’reign word;Restore thy trust; a glorious formShall then arise to meet the Lord.”Again that childless widow raised her voice,And sang the funeral song. The strength she had:Was not her own—it came from God himself.For like a vine deprived of its support,She shot new tendrils forth, and clasp’d them roundTh’ almighty arm of God, reach’d down from Heaven.For her relief; and that almighty armRais’d her above the troubles of the earth.They little know what solid comfort is,Who ne’er have turn’d to Heaven in sorrow’s hour!Thrice happy man, corrected of the Lord!Whose roots are torn from earth’s most wretched soil,Whene’er they shoot their clinging fibres down.O, let me ever be uprooted thus!If I be watered with the dews of Heaven,I still shall flourish in celestial green,And bear the blessed fruits of holiness.Yes—with unfalt’ring voice the mourner sang,While others gazed in pure astonishment,And thought ’twas “passing strange.”The music ceas’d,And all prepared to follow to the graveHim who had won their hearts. The twilight hourWas beautiful indeed. The setting sunLinger’d awhile upon his ruddy throneOf burnish’d clouds, ere he sank down to rest,To shed his parting beams upon the graveOf him on whom he ever loved to shine.The river roll’d more silently alongThan was its wont;—all nature seem’d to pauseT’ attend that honor’d burial. Silently,With ling’ring feet, the long procession movedTo that same resting place within a grove,Where they had follow’d to his peaceful homeThe young and lovely boy, two days before.But who are these approaching from afar,And urging on their weary steeds? They seemIn haste to meet the mournful retinueOf him who rides within the sabled hearse.They meet—dismount—advance with tott’ring steps,And take their station at the mourner’s side,Now near her husband’s grave. Who, who are they?The minister, and his beloved wife;Both sick, both weary, pale, and sorrowful;They each had risen from the couch of pain,And come with trembling haste, four miles or more.Nor did they come too late; again in prayerThe preacher rais’d his voice; its solemn tonesAwaked the evening echoes; hollow soundsThey were, for he was sick; but in that hourThe spirit triumph’d o’er the fainting frame.It was a melting scene. Long hoary hairsWere waving in the breeze, while old and youngAgain uncover’d their respectful heads,When prayer was made to God; and in that hour,When stood the mourner at her husband’s grave,Quite near the little mound that cover’d o’erHer boy so beautiful, again she rais’dHer beaming face to Heaven, and, all entranc’dWith visions of celestial glory—smiled!The parting beams of the descending sunPlay’d on her cheek, and on her pallid brow,And kiss’d her parting lips; they seem’d a signFrom Heaven—a sweet love token from the skies.But hark! what noise is that, that strangely breaksUpon the sacred stillness of the scene?All eyes are turn’d to where the sound is heard,Nor is it far away. Affecting sight!Beside that little mound, with mournful whine,There lies the dog; he struggles in his griefTo tear away the heavy coveringThat hides his little master from his sight!With frantic strength he scratches on the earth!The faithful creature sees one open grave;Why not the other too? Why keep it closed—That grave that hides the form he dearly loves?Ah, noble friend! thou’lt see that form no more!Again the minister returneth thanksTo those around, for all their kindness shown;Again upon the buried coffin, fallThe heavy clods of earth, with hollow sound;Again the mourner, shudd’ring, turns away,And leaves the burial place with ling’ring step.Go with her to the now deserted room,Where she must dwell in grief and loneliness.She slowly enters there, and casts aroundA sad, despairing glance. O, could she weep,How would the briny waters burst their bounds,And pour in torrents down her cheeks! But no,She cannot weep. The fountain of her tearsSeems turn’d into a flood of burning fire,To scorch her fever’d brain. She looks around;There hangs the little dress her boy last wore,Just as she took it from him; pantaloons,And frock, and shoes, and shining leather belt,All ready for the wearer. There is, too,His little hat of leghorn, temptinglyLaid by his long sleeved apron, ready forHis gamboling upon the sunny lawn.There hangs the coat her husband wore, when lastHe walk’d with her, and with his little boy.There hangs his hat, dress’d with its weed of crape,Worn for her brother, who had died before.To each of these she goes, and lays her handUpon them—takes them down, and fancies howThey look’d upon the wearer—kisses them—The dress, the hat, the belt, the coat, the shoes—And then returns them to their places. O,For tears! for sweet, sweet tears! They will not come.There in the corner stands the instrumentOn which her husband loved at eve to play;Yes, at that very hour—that twilight hour,How often would the viol’s tones be heardTo mingle with her voice in sacred song!She thither goes, and takes her boy’s low chair,And sits beside it. See! she lays her headUpon the very spot his hand would touchIf he were playing it. See! she kisses it,And clasps her arms around the slender neck,And hugs it to her breast! It will not do—Still, still she cannot weep.The violinIs hanging silent in its ’custom’d place;’Twas with the violin he used to lullHis boy to sleep, when, wearied with his play,His head was on its evening pillow laid.The boy would warble, as the father play’d,A drowsy song, then silent sink to sleep.What visions must have visited his couch,Thus woo’d to peaceful slumbers! On the chairShe stands, and reaches it from its high place,And covers it with kisses!—Still no tears.Who comes into that room with stealthy tread?—That room so sacred to the mourner, who?It is a good old lady, come to seeWhat means the stillness in that mournful room.Long had she knock’d without—but, dead to allSave her own grief, the mourner did not hear.At last she ventured in, and reaching forthHer venerable arms, she clasp’d them roundThe mourner, sobbing out—“My poor dear child!”Lo! at these magic words of pity, sheWho could not weep before, is weeping nowUpon the dear old lady’s bosom. Yes!Her arms are tightly clasp’d around her neck,As though she were her mother; and her headHas sunk upon that sympathizing breast;And when at length she raises it again,There beams a tranquil smile upon her face,Like the bright rainbow shining after rain!How sweet is sympathy! Each heart doth knowIts own deep bitterness; but many weighThe grief of others in false balances,And blame them where they ought to sympathize.When the sharp deadly arrows of the LordAre drinking up the spirit, O, ’tis hardTo meet with “miserable comforters.”To him that is afflicted, pity show;Ye, who enjoy the smiles of Providence!Your turn may come; then who will pity you,If ever you have breath’d a word unkindTo one whose heart was breaking? God will laughAt your calamity, and mock at all your fear!

All flesh is not the same. There is one kind

Of flesh, of men; another flesh of beasts;

Another flesh of fishes; and of birds:

There are celestial bodies; and there are

Terrestrial; but their glories are not one:

There also is one glory of the sun;

One glory of the moon; one of the stars;

For one star diff’reth from another star.

So is the resurrection of the dead;’Tis in corruption sown, but it is raisedIn incorruption; in dishonor sown,’Tis raised in glory; ’tis in weakness sown,’Tis raised in power; a body natural’Tis sown, ’tis raised a spiritual one.For it is written thus; Adam, the first,Was made a living soul; Adam, the last,Was made a quick’ning spirit. Of the earthEarthy, the first man is; the second man,He is the Lord from Heaven. As we have borneThe image of the earthly, we shall bearThe image of the heavenly. Now, behold!A mystery I show; all shall not sleep;But we shall all be chang’d, at the last trump,In a moment—in the twinkling of an eye.

So is the resurrection of the dead;

’Tis in corruption sown, but it is raised

In incorruption; in dishonor sown,

’Tis raised in glory; ’tis in weakness sown,

’Tis raised in power; a body natural

’Tis sown, ’tis raised a spiritual one.

For it is written thus; Adam, the first,

Was made a living soul; Adam, the last,

Was made a quick’ning spirit. Of the earth

Earthy, the first man is; the second man,

He is the Lord from Heaven. As we have borne

The image of the earthly, we shall bear

The image of the heavenly. Now, behold!

A mystery I show; all shall not sleep;

But we shall all be chang’d, at the last trump,

In a moment—in the twinkling of an eye.

The trump shall sound—the dead shall all be rais’d.Thenincorruptible; and we shall allBe quickly changed. For this corruptibleMust put on incorruption, and this mortalPut on immortality. So whenCorruptible has put on incorruption—And mortal put on immortality,Then what is written shall be brought to pass,That death is swallow’d up in victory.

The trump shall sound—the dead shall all be rais’d.

Thenincorruptible; and we shall all

Be quickly changed. For this corruptible

Must put on incorruption, and this mortal

Put on immortality. So when

Corruptible has put on incorruption—

And mortal put on immortality,

Then what is written shall be brought to pass,

That death is swallow’d up in victory.

O, Death! where is thy sting? O, Grave! where isThy victory? The sting of death is sin;The strength of sin, the law; but unto GodBe thanks, who giveth us the victory,Through Jesus Christ our Lord!” Amen! Amen!

O, Death! where is thy sting? O, Grave! where is

Thy victory? The sting of death is sin;

The strength of sin, the law; but unto God

Be thanks, who giveth us the victory,

Through Jesus Christ our Lord!” Amen! Amen!

What glorious words are these! The Bible speaksTo souls that are afflicted with a forceAnd emphasis unknown before. The waxWhen duly soften’d, will receive and keepThe beautiful impression—and the heartTried in affliction’s furnace, will be madeTo picture the refiner’s countenance,Reflected sweetly there.

What glorious words are these! The Bible speaks

To souls that are afflicted with a force

And emphasis unknown before. The wax

When duly soften’d, will receive and keep

The beautiful impression—and the heart

Tried in affliction’s furnace, will be made

To picture the refiner’s countenance,

Reflected sweetly there.

The mourner heardThese things, with joy unspeakable, and peaceThat passeth understanding. Every wordWas music to her ear, and healing balmTo her poor bleeding heart. The drowning manWill grasp for life at every floating straw;And so the mourner, of all joy bereft,Will catch at every hope the gospel gives.

The mourner heard

These things, with joy unspeakable, and peace

That passeth understanding. Every word

Was music to her ear, and healing balm

To her poor bleeding heart. The drowning man

Will grasp for life at every floating straw;

And so the mourner, of all joy bereft,

Will catch at every hope the gospel gives.

The reader closed the book, and sat him down;And then the mourner call’d him to her sideWith silent beckon. In her hand she heldA little volume—’twas the same sweet bookHad been her kind companion all the day;It was the hymn book given her by himWho now lay coffin’d there. She pointed outA certain hymn, and begg’d it might be sung;For at her darling sister’s distant grave,In dear New Haven, it was sweetly sungBut two short years before. The young and fair,The brave and beautiful, had chanted itAround her early grave, with swelling hearts,And many a falling tear. For she was lovedBy all who knew her, and they knew her wellIn sweet New Haven. ’Twas a favorite placeWhere these two sisters loved to walk aloneAnd commune with the dead; for very nearThe sacred spot where now her form was laid,Two much loved friends were sleeping side by side—The gifted Martha, and the lovely Jane.[5]And he who once had led her ardent mindIn search of knowledge[6]—he too slept withinThat peaceful grave yard. O, he was a manWhose like is seldom seen on earth; all, allWho ever knew him will his name revere,Till they shall meet him in the realms of bliss,Who ever sought to lead them to the skies.Peace to the mem’ry of the holy man!

The reader closed the book, and sat him down;

And then the mourner call’d him to her side

With silent beckon. In her hand she held

A little volume—’twas the same sweet book

Had been her kind companion all the day;

It was the hymn book given her by him

Who now lay coffin’d there. She pointed out

A certain hymn, and begg’d it might be sung;

For at her darling sister’s distant grave,

In dear New Haven, it was sweetly sung

But two short years before. The young and fair,

The brave and beautiful, had chanted it

Around her early grave, with swelling hearts,

And many a falling tear. For she was loved

By all who knew her, and they knew her well

In sweet New Haven. ’Twas a favorite place

Where these two sisters loved to walk alone

And commune with the dead; for very near

The sacred spot where now her form was laid,

Two much loved friends were sleeping side by side—

The gifted Martha, and the lovely Jane.[5]

And he who once had led her ardent mind

In search of knowledge[6]—he too slept within

That peaceful grave yard. O, he was a man

Whose like is seldom seen on earth; all, all

Who ever knew him will his name revere,

Till they shall meet him in the realms of bliss,

Who ever sought to lead them to the skies.

Peace to the mem’ry of the holy man!

A father and a mother weeping stoodBeside her grave—one sister on a bedOf sickness lay, not very far remote;And one was at her distant southern home:O, she had yet to hear the sad, sad news!An only brother, very near in age,Who loved her as himself—and more; he stoodWith folded arms and drooping head, and sawHis darling sister hidden from his viewBy the dark envious grave. But he has goneTo meet her in her everlasting home!In distant Alabama’s friendly soil,He found a grave! They were too pure for earth;And ’tis not saying they were wholly pure,To say thus much—for when th’ immortal soulHas bathed itself so freely in the bloodOf Jesus, that its stains of sin grow pale,God always calls the spirit to himself,To take its station near his own bright throne.It could not breathe the atmosphere of earthWhen it is purified and fit for Heaven.But while it lives on earth ’tis human still,And therefore sinful.

A father and a mother weeping stood

Beside her grave—one sister on a bed

Of sickness lay, not very far remote;

And one was at her distant southern home:

O, she had yet to hear the sad, sad news!

An only brother, very near in age,

Who loved her as himself—and more; he stood

With folded arms and drooping head, and saw

His darling sister hidden from his view

By the dark envious grave. But he has gone

To meet her in her everlasting home!

In distant Alabama’s friendly soil,

He found a grave! They were too pure for earth;

And ’tis not saying they were wholly pure,

To say thus much—for when th’ immortal soul

Has bathed itself so freely in the blood

Of Jesus, that its stains of sin grow pale,

God always calls the spirit to himself,

To take its station near his own bright throne.

It could not breathe the atmosphere of earth

When it is purified and fit for Heaven.

But while it lives on earth ’tis human still,

And therefore sinful.

Round the open graveOf her who died so far away from home,How grateful to the mourning bosoms there,The friendly sympathy of old and young!Cold hearted and unfriendly call ye these—The natives of the north? It is not so;My fellow Southrons! If the hand of GodShall ever lay you low, when far from home,Among your breth’ren of the frozen north,I know, dear friends! I know ye’ll see them shedWith the dejected mourner, tear for tear.

Round the open grave

Of her who died so far away from home,

How grateful to the mourning bosoms there,

The friendly sympathy of old and young!

Cold hearted and unfriendly call ye these—

The natives of the north? It is not so;

My fellow Southrons! If the hand of God

Shall ever lay you low, when far from home,

Among your breth’ren of the frozen north,

I know, dear friends! I know ye’ll see them shed

With the dejected mourner, tear for tear.

Sweetly the voices round that young girl’s grave,Peal’d forth a solemn dirge. Now swell’d it highIn lofty strains; and now in cadence soft,It seem’d to die away upon the ear;Then would it swell again, and reach the skies,And seem to mingle with the music there.Now where the Mississippi proudly roll’dIts world of waters to the distant sea,That dirge was sung again. The words were these:

Sweetly the voices round that young girl’s grave,

Peal’d forth a solemn dirge. Now swell’d it high

In lofty strains; and now in cadence soft,

It seem’d to die away upon the ear;

Then would it swell again, and reach the skies,

And seem to mingle with the music there.

Now where the Mississippi proudly roll’d

Its world of waters to the distant sea,

That dirge was sung again. The words were these:

“Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb!Take this new treasure to thy trust;And give these sacred relics roomTo slumber in the silent dust.

“Unveil thy bosom, faithful tomb!

Take this new treasure to thy trust;

And give these sacred relics room

To slumber in the silent dust.

No pain, nor grief, nor anxious fearInvades thy bounds; no mortal woesCan reach the lowly sleeper here,While angels watch the soft repose.

No pain, nor grief, nor anxious fear

Invades thy bounds; no mortal woes

Can reach the lowly sleeper here,

While angels watch the soft repose.

So Jesus slept; God’s dying SonPass’d through the grave, and bless’d the bed:Rest here, blest saint! till from his throneThe morning break, and pierce the shade.

So Jesus slept; God’s dying Son

Pass’d through the grave, and bless’d the bed:

Rest here, blest saint! till from his throne

The morning break, and pierce the shade.

Break from his throne, illustrious morn!Attend, O, earth, his sov’reign word;Restore thy trust; a glorious formShall then arise to meet the Lord.”

Break from his throne, illustrious morn!

Attend, O, earth, his sov’reign word;

Restore thy trust; a glorious form

Shall then arise to meet the Lord.”

Again that childless widow raised her voice,And sang the funeral song. The strength she had:Was not her own—it came from God himself.For like a vine deprived of its support,She shot new tendrils forth, and clasp’d them roundTh’ almighty arm of God, reach’d down from Heaven.For her relief; and that almighty armRais’d her above the troubles of the earth.They little know what solid comfort is,Who ne’er have turn’d to Heaven in sorrow’s hour!Thrice happy man, corrected of the Lord!Whose roots are torn from earth’s most wretched soil,Whene’er they shoot their clinging fibres down.O, let me ever be uprooted thus!If I be watered with the dews of Heaven,I still shall flourish in celestial green,And bear the blessed fruits of holiness.Yes—with unfalt’ring voice the mourner sang,While others gazed in pure astonishment,And thought ’twas “passing strange.”

Again that childless widow raised her voice,

And sang the funeral song. The strength she had:

Was not her own—it came from God himself.

For like a vine deprived of its support,

She shot new tendrils forth, and clasp’d them round

Th’ almighty arm of God, reach’d down from Heaven.

For her relief; and that almighty arm

Rais’d her above the troubles of the earth.

They little know what solid comfort is,

Who ne’er have turn’d to Heaven in sorrow’s hour!

Thrice happy man, corrected of the Lord!

Whose roots are torn from earth’s most wretched soil,

Whene’er they shoot their clinging fibres down.

O, let me ever be uprooted thus!

If I be watered with the dews of Heaven,

I still shall flourish in celestial green,

And bear the blessed fruits of holiness.

Yes—with unfalt’ring voice the mourner sang,

While others gazed in pure astonishment,

And thought ’twas “passing strange.”

The music ceas’d,And all prepared to follow to the graveHim who had won their hearts. The twilight hourWas beautiful indeed. The setting sunLinger’d awhile upon his ruddy throneOf burnish’d clouds, ere he sank down to rest,To shed his parting beams upon the graveOf him on whom he ever loved to shine.The river roll’d more silently alongThan was its wont;—all nature seem’d to pauseT’ attend that honor’d burial. Silently,With ling’ring feet, the long procession movedTo that same resting place within a grove,Where they had follow’d to his peaceful homeThe young and lovely boy, two days before.

The music ceas’d,

And all prepared to follow to the grave

Him who had won their hearts. The twilight hour

Was beautiful indeed. The setting sun

Linger’d awhile upon his ruddy throne

Of burnish’d clouds, ere he sank down to rest,

To shed his parting beams upon the grave

Of him on whom he ever loved to shine.

The river roll’d more silently along

Than was its wont;—all nature seem’d to pause

T’ attend that honor’d burial. Silently,

With ling’ring feet, the long procession moved

To that same resting place within a grove,

Where they had follow’d to his peaceful home

The young and lovely boy, two days before.

But who are these approaching from afar,And urging on their weary steeds? They seemIn haste to meet the mournful retinueOf him who rides within the sabled hearse.They meet—dismount—advance with tott’ring steps,And take their station at the mourner’s side,Now near her husband’s grave. Who, who are they?The minister, and his beloved wife;Both sick, both weary, pale, and sorrowful;They each had risen from the couch of pain,And come with trembling haste, four miles or more.

But who are these approaching from afar,

And urging on their weary steeds? They seem

In haste to meet the mournful retinue

Of him who rides within the sabled hearse.

They meet—dismount—advance with tott’ring steps,

And take their station at the mourner’s side,

Now near her husband’s grave. Who, who are they?

The minister, and his beloved wife;

Both sick, both weary, pale, and sorrowful;

They each had risen from the couch of pain,

And come with trembling haste, four miles or more.

Nor did they come too late; again in prayerThe preacher rais’d his voice; its solemn tonesAwaked the evening echoes; hollow soundsThey were, for he was sick; but in that hourThe spirit triumph’d o’er the fainting frame.It was a melting scene. Long hoary hairsWere waving in the breeze, while old and youngAgain uncover’d their respectful heads,When prayer was made to God; and in that hour,When stood the mourner at her husband’s grave,Quite near the little mound that cover’d o’erHer boy so beautiful, again she rais’dHer beaming face to Heaven, and, all entranc’dWith visions of celestial glory—smiled!The parting beams of the descending sunPlay’d on her cheek, and on her pallid brow,And kiss’d her parting lips; they seem’d a signFrom Heaven—a sweet love token from the skies.

Nor did they come too late; again in prayer

The preacher rais’d his voice; its solemn tones

Awaked the evening echoes; hollow sounds

They were, for he was sick; but in that hour

The spirit triumph’d o’er the fainting frame.

It was a melting scene. Long hoary hairs

Were waving in the breeze, while old and young

Again uncover’d their respectful heads,

When prayer was made to God; and in that hour,

When stood the mourner at her husband’s grave,

Quite near the little mound that cover’d o’er

Her boy so beautiful, again she rais’d

Her beaming face to Heaven, and, all entranc’d

With visions of celestial glory—smiled!

The parting beams of the descending sun

Play’d on her cheek, and on her pallid brow,

And kiss’d her parting lips; they seem’d a sign

From Heaven—a sweet love token from the skies.

But hark! what noise is that, that strangely breaksUpon the sacred stillness of the scene?All eyes are turn’d to where the sound is heard,Nor is it far away. Affecting sight!Beside that little mound, with mournful whine,There lies the dog; he struggles in his griefTo tear away the heavy coveringThat hides his little master from his sight!With frantic strength he scratches on the earth!The faithful creature sees one open grave;Why not the other too? Why keep it closed—That grave that hides the form he dearly loves?Ah, noble friend! thou’lt see that form no more!

But hark! what noise is that, that strangely breaks

Upon the sacred stillness of the scene?

All eyes are turn’d to where the sound is heard,

Nor is it far away. Affecting sight!

Beside that little mound, with mournful whine,

There lies the dog; he struggles in his grief

To tear away the heavy covering

That hides his little master from his sight!

With frantic strength he scratches on the earth!

The faithful creature sees one open grave;

Why not the other too? Why keep it closed—

That grave that hides the form he dearly loves?

Ah, noble friend! thou’lt see that form no more!

Again the minister returneth thanksTo those around, for all their kindness shown;Again upon the buried coffin, fallThe heavy clods of earth, with hollow sound;Again the mourner, shudd’ring, turns away,And leaves the burial place with ling’ring step.

Again the minister returneth thanks

To those around, for all their kindness shown;

Again upon the buried coffin, fall

The heavy clods of earth, with hollow sound;

Again the mourner, shudd’ring, turns away,

And leaves the burial place with ling’ring step.

Go with her to the now deserted room,Where she must dwell in grief and loneliness.She slowly enters there, and casts aroundA sad, despairing glance. O, could she weep,How would the briny waters burst their bounds,And pour in torrents down her cheeks! But no,She cannot weep. The fountain of her tearsSeems turn’d into a flood of burning fire,To scorch her fever’d brain. She looks around;There hangs the little dress her boy last wore,Just as she took it from him; pantaloons,And frock, and shoes, and shining leather belt,All ready for the wearer. There is, too,His little hat of leghorn, temptinglyLaid by his long sleeved apron, ready forHis gamboling upon the sunny lawn.There hangs the coat her husband wore, when lastHe walk’d with her, and with his little boy.There hangs his hat, dress’d with its weed of crape,Worn for her brother, who had died before.To each of these she goes, and lays her handUpon them—takes them down, and fancies howThey look’d upon the wearer—kisses them—The dress, the hat, the belt, the coat, the shoes—And then returns them to their places. O,For tears! for sweet, sweet tears! They will not come.

Go with her to the now deserted room,

Where she must dwell in grief and loneliness.

She slowly enters there, and casts around

A sad, despairing glance. O, could she weep,

How would the briny waters burst their bounds,

And pour in torrents down her cheeks! But no,

She cannot weep. The fountain of her tears

Seems turn’d into a flood of burning fire,

To scorch her fever’d brain. She looks around;

There hangs the little dress her boy last wore,

Just as she took it from him; pantaloons,

And frock, and shoes, and shining leather belt,

All ready for the wearer. There is, too,

His little hat of leghorn, temptingly

Laid by his long sleeved apron, ready for

His gamboling upon the sunny lawn.

There hangs the coat her husband wore, when last

He walk’d with her, and with his little boy.

There hangs his hat, dress’d with its weed of crape,

Worn for her brother, who had died before.

To each of these she goes, and lays her hand

Upon them—takes them down, and fancies how

They look’d upon the wearer—kisses them—

The dress, the hat, the belt, the coat, the shoes—

And then returns them to their places. O,

For tears! for sweet, sweet tears! They will not come.

There in the corner stands the instrumentOn which her husband loved at eve to play;Yes, at that very hour—that twilight hour,How often would the viol’s tones be heardTo mingle with her voice in sacred song!She thither goes, and takes her boy’s low chair,And sits beside it. See! she lays her headUpon the very spot his hand would touchIf he were playing it. See! she kisses it,And clasps her arms around the slender neck,And hugs it to her breast! It will not do—Still, still she cannot weep.

There in the corner stands the instrument

On which her husband loved at eve to play;

Yes, at that very hour—that twilight hour,

How often would the viol’s tones be heard

To mingle with her voice in sacred song!

She thither goes, and takes her boy’s low chair,

And sits beside it. See! she lays her head

Upon the very spot his hand would touch

If he were playing it. See! she kisses it,

And clasps her arms around the slender neck,

And hugs it to her breast! It will not do—

Still, still she cannot weep.

The violinIs hanging silent in its ’custom’d place;’Twas with the violin he used to lullHis boy to sleep, when, wearied with his play,His head was on its evening pillow laid.The boy would warble, as the father play’d,A drowsy song, then silent sink to sleep.What visions must have visited his couch,Thus woo’d to peaceful slumbers! On the chairShe stands, and reaches it from its high place,And covers it with kisses!—Still no tears.

The violin

Is hanging silent in its ’custom’d place;

’Twas with the violin he used to lull

His boy to sleep, when, wearied with his play,

His head was on its evening pillow laid.

The boy would warble, as the father play’d,

A drowsy song, then silent sink to sleep.

What visions must have visited his couch,

Thus woo’d to peaceful slumbers! On the chair

She stands, and reaches it from its high place,

And covers it with kisses!—Still no tears.

Who comes into that room with stealthy tread?—That room so sacred to the mourner, who?It is a good old lady, come to seeWhat means the stillness in that mournful room.Long had she knock’d without—but, dead to allSave her own grief, the mourner did not hear.At last she ventured in, and reaching forthHer venerable arms, she clasp’d them roundThe mourner, sobbing out—“My poor dear child!”Lo! at these magic words of pity, sheWho could not weep before, is weeping nowUpon the dear old lady’s bosom. Yes!Her arms are tightly clasp’d around her neck,As though she were her mother; and her headHas sunk upon that sympathizing breast;And when at length she raises it again,There beams a tranquil smile upon her face,Like the bright rainbow shining after rain!

Who comes into that room with stealthy tread?—

That room so sacred to the mourner, who?

It is a good old lady, come to see

What means the stillness in that mournful room.

Long had she knock’d without—but, dead to all

Save her own grief, the mourner did not hear.

At last she ventured in, and reaching forth

Her venerable arms, she clasp’d them round

The mourner, sobbing out—“My poor dear child!”

Lo! at these magic words of pity, she

Who could not weep before, is weeping now

Upon the dear old lady’s bosom. Yes!

Her arms are tightly clasp’d around her neck,

As though she were her mother; and her head

Has sunk upon that sympathizing breast;

And when at length she raises it again,

There beams a tranquil smile upon her face,

Like the bright rainbow shining after rain!

How sweet is sympathy! Each heart doth knowIts own deep bitterness; but many weighThe grief of others in false balances,And blame them where they ought to sympathize.When the sharp deadly arrows of the LordAre drinking up the spirit, O, ’tis hardTo meet with “miserable comforters.”To him that is afflicted, pity show;Ye, who enjoy the smiles of Providence!Your turn may come; then who will pity you,If ever you have breath’d a word unkindTo one whose heart was breaking? God will laughAt your calamity, and mock at all your fear!

How sweet is sympathy! Each heart doth know

Its own deep bitterness; but many weigh

The grief of others in false balances,

And blame them where they ought to sympathize.

When the sharp deadly arrows of the Lord

Are drinking up the spirit, O, ’tis hard

To meet with “miserable comforters.”

To him that is afflicted, pity show;

Ye, who enjoy the smiles of Providence!

Your turn may come; then who will pity you,

If ever you have breath’d a word unkind

To one whose heart was breaking? God will laugh

At your calamity, and mock at all your fear!

Charleston,June 26, 1841.

FOOTNOTES

[5]Martha Day, daughter of President Day, of Yale College: andJane L. Floyd, daughter of the late Rev. Laomi Floyd, and adopted daughter of the Rev. Dr. Palmer, of Charleston; who died in New Haven, where she was pursuing her studies.

[6]TheRev. Claudius Herrick, long known and celebrated as the instructor of young ladies in New Haven.

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