THOUGHTS ON THE DEATH OF AN AGED FRIEND.

I stood beside his death-bed, and a smile,

Like the last glance of the departing sun,

Played on his features; life was ebbing fast,

And death was creeping o’er him stealthily—

And yet he smiled, as the last hour came on.

We gathered round him, and his eye grew dim,

And his voice faltered, and the shortening breath

Came through his parted lips convulsively—

The last faint accents of a murmured prayer:

And then we turned us from his couch, and wept

That the dear ties were severed, which had bound

Our hearts in kindred intercourse:—We grieved

That he whom we had loved so tenderly,

Should pass away with the forgotten dead.

Oh, there is something saddening in the thought

Of death, whene’er it comes. To stand beside

The death-bed of a dear and cherished one;

To mark the tristful pangs, the hopes and fears,

To see the perishing form of loveliness,

And hear the last fond parting word—farewell!

And then to gaze upon the lifeless form,

To part the damp locks from the marble brow,

And wipe the death-dews which have gather’d there;

To lay the sleeper in his narrow house,

And leave him with the cold and listless dead,—

Oh, it is saddening!—and the tide of tears—

The warm, warm tears, that gush from feeling hearts—

Oh, they are holy!—And there is a bliss,

When the heart swells with anguish, and when grief

Chokes up the spirit in its agony—

Oh, there is something—and ’tis like the dew

Which evening sheds upon the summer flower,

And weighs it down, until it bows itself,

And pours the bright drops from its secret cell.

Oh, holy is the fountain of those tears,

And pure their gushing. ’Tis a holy thing

To weep at such an hour. ’Tis manliness

To yield the heart to feeling, and to loose

The shackles that so cramp its energies,

And bind it down to the unfeeling world.

Yet why thus mourn for those who die, when age

Has made existence but a weariness?

Why grieve that they should cast aside the coil

That binds them to the earth and wretchedness?

We do not weep at Autumn; when the leaves

Lie in the valleys—mortals never weep

When the tree casts its fruitage, or when flowers,

Blooming through the mild months, all fade away

In their appointed season: Then why weep

For those whose years have passed the destined bourne

Of man’s existence.—Rather let us weep

For the young flower that blossometh and dies,

Ere it hath seen the noon-day. Rather mourn

For those, the sweet and beautiful of earth,

Who die in youth’s bright morning.

Tears for the flowers, and the young buds of hope,

That wreathe Death’s altar:—let us weep for them.

But let us dash away the sorrowing tear,

That falls upon the aged sleeper’s grave;

And joy that he has left this sinful world,

And sought a purer and a happier sphere,

Where sorrow never comes, and where no care

Blanches the cheek, and makes the spirit sad;

Where sin hath never entered, to pollute

The perfect sense of happiness; where all

The great and good of earth for ever dwell,

In the soft sun-shine of Eternal youth.

“THE OMNIBUS.”[1]

[1] An “Omnibus” (this explanation is one of pure politeness on our part, and for the sake of the uninitiated) is a substitute for an Album; in which, any thing, every thing, and nothing, are quartered heterogeneously, and made good friends—supposing all this time that the thing be kept within the pale of proprieties. They are with, or without covers—written in black or red ink—up or down—crossways or otherwise, just as it happens. They were first got up by a certain coterie of ladies, who had sense enough to see that “Albums” are very sentimental and very ridiculous, owing to the extreme nicety with which a man must scribble for them; and that by introducing a little more latitude in this respect, the evil might in a measure be remedied. The result, ’tis thought, has shown their wisdom.