He knew that a fervent prayer would rise
For the loved and the long-absent one;
He knew that the tears would flow from their eyes,
And his father’s voice would be choked with
sighs,
As he prayed for his erring son.
He knew for him they would all implore
A renewed and a sanctified heart;
That when the toils of this life were o’er
They all might embrace each other once more,
Never, no never to part!
One trembling hand to his brow he pressed,
And the tears of contrition he shed;
He implored for pardon, a home with the blest;
Then he wrapped his cloak round his gory breast,
And the warrior’s spirit fled!
This morning while examining a skull strange emotions
took possession of me—such as I never before
experienced. That senseless skull had once been
the seat of deep thought and powerful passions; beaming
eyes once glistened brightly where now there was only
a hollow space; that head was once proudly erected,
and the form that supported it once mingled in the
busy scenes of life. But now what a change!
His very name is forgotten—himself but
a handful of dust. O mortals! behold, and learn
a lesson. His body has long since mouldered away
and mingled with the parent earth,—this
skull alone remains; and yet the time will surely
come, and cannot be far distant, when “the bones
shall come together—bone to his bone”;
when the sinews and the flesh shall come upon them,
the skin cover them, and the breath entering the body
the dead shall live! Will this skull come forward
at “the resurrection of the just,” or
——? Oh, what an awful thought!
My very blood runs cold, and a shudder steals over
me. O thou great Mediator of mankind, intercede
for me before thy Father’s throne, that ere it
is everlastingly too late my unworthy name may be
written in the Lamb’s book of life. (July
5, 1852.)
A bride but yesterday—all hope and love,—
Flowers at her feet and cloudless skies above,
Bright buds of promise twining round her brow,
Approach—approach and gaze upon her now!
Come not in festal robes as once ye came,
The bride is here but she is not the same
As when ye saw her to the altar led,
And called down blessings on her fair young head.
The cheek is pale that with the rose could vie,
There is no lustre in that rayless eye,
Upon those pallid lips there is no breath,
And she alas is now the bride of Death!
Henceforth what soul will ever dare to trust
In things that crumble at a breath to dust?
And who would dream of earthly joy and bliss
Taught by a lesson terrible as this?
