And thought not these weary watchers of that lonely night, of the revellers in that distant hall? Methinks their hearts went up in fervent prayer to God that he would spare them yet a little longer, for there were immortal souls there, for whom he labored and prayed, who entered the sanctuary and heard the word of God as it fell from his lips, Sabbath after Sabbath, and he felt sensibly that the midnight revel would not prepare the heart to seek God, or make the necessary preparation for death. Towards morning the eyes of the little sufferer closed in uneasy slumber, and the parents too, were refreshed by a short interval of sleep.
Passing yet in another direction was a tall youth, with a subdued expression of countenance, hurrying on, in spite of wind and rain, to the doctor's office, to procure assistance for a sick mother, who was tossing in all the agony of brain fever. The doctor had been called away to visit a little child that had a sudden attack of the croup, that fearful disease that bears so many children to the tomb. He returned again with a sorrowing heart. Heeded he the sweet tones of music that fell upon his youthful ear? wished he to join the gay group as they flitted before the brilliantly lighted, window, and the fairy forms of the fashionable, and the pleasure-seeking met his eye? O, no; there was sorrow in his young heart, and sorrow brooded over the household. Towards midnight the doctor came, and a young daughter, younger than many who graced the festive ball, following his directions, alleviated the sufferings of a sick mother, and wore the weary night away in anxious watchings.
Not till another day dawned, did the rumbling of the carriages cease, that were conveying home the sons and daughters of dissipation. And thus passed the night, leaving no trace upon earth, for the waves of time have obliterated all its footprints. But its record is on high, and it will never be forgotten by the Eternal One, whose eye slumbereth not.
Such is human life, and such is the race of man. Although we are all bound together by one common brotherhood, the song of the gay is ever the funeral dirge to the sorrowing.
Perchance that night might have disclosed still darker pictures in the hidden recesses of our village, for, oh, there are dens of foul pollution, that send their infectious taint over the pure air of our community, calling the blush of shame to the cheek of conscious virtue, and creating an ardent desire in the breast of the philanthropist, to go forth and labor in the vineyard of the Lord, that these foul spots may be washed in his precious blood, and made clean.
O, could all the misery that was extant in the village have been presented to the thoughtless revellers, could they have danced on? Would not the tear of sympathy have moistened the cheek, and the still small voice whispered of a solemn time that must come to them? O, it is wise to receive the admonition, "Be ye also ready, for in such an hour as ye think not, the Son of Man cometh."
Faint, indeed, are the delineations from Memory's tablet, upon this little map, but enough, perchance, to lead the contemplative mind to reflect upon the vicissitudes and changes of its little day, and teach us to prepare for a better world, "where change comes not."
Contemplations in a Grave Yard.
'Twas on one pensive even tide,
When restless toil and day had fled;
I laid all airy scenes aside,
To wander o'er the silent dead.The rising moon from eastern sky,
O'er the lone heath shed languid light,
And boding owls with fearful cry
Heightened the solemn gloom of night.With pensive steps I reach'd the pile,
Where well wrought limbs return to clay;
And tow'ring marble's pompous style
Points out the great, the rich, the gay.But where's ambition's piercing eye,
His restless look, his haughty air?
They're vanish'd all, and near him lie
Frames that once fed on black despair.What though the marble's rais'd o'er one,
To tell his former wealth or worth,
While a green turf, or mossy stone,
Denote the man of humbler birth.Yet all in silence mould'ring lie
In the cold grave where vapors glide,
The beggar here's as fair as he
Who rolled in wealth, or swam in pride.'Neath a green mound there slept a youth,
Whose form in life in beauty bloom'd:
His manner sweet, his speech was truth,
But nought could save him from the tomb.At little distance from his side,
A wild rose shed a pearly tear
O'er her who would have been his bride,
Had not dread death been thus severe.I mus'd in silence on their fate,
And watch'd the graves where low they lie,
Reflecting on their altered state.
From nuptial bliss to mould'ring clay,And such, methinks, the lot of all;
We picture joys with eager eye,
'Till death's damp curtains round us fall,
And silent in his arms we lie.Beneath a verdant, grassy mound,
Where gemmed with dew the daisy weeps;
In death's cold slumber wrapped profound,
A gentle mother peaceful sleeps.No storied urn bespeaks her worth.
No epitaph or stone is near;
But the wild flow'rs that strew the earth,
Are watered oft by many a tear.And oh, such tribute is more dear--
Warm gushing from affection's eye,
Than the cold marble's senseless praise,
That sheds no tear--that heaves no sigh.A little path is closely worn,
Where prattling children often stray,
And o'er their sainted mother mourn,
To shield her memory from decay.And hoary age has sunk to rest,
Deep buried 'neath the crumbling sod;
No anxious cares disturb his breast,--
His ransom'd soul has flown to God.Weary and sad, he struggled on
Life's rugged pathway, till its close;
And then, in death, lay calmly down,
To slumber in its deep repose.I turn'd to view a little grave,
Where infant sweetness silent slept;
There the tall myrtle mournful way'd,--
The willow there in sorrow slept."Sleep on," I cried, "thy little breast
Ne'er knew the heartfelt woes of men;
No pain or care disturb thy rest,
Or jarring scenes obstruct thy ken."Happy, like thee, might I resign
This life in Virtue's purest ray,
And spring to life and joy divine,
Free from this cumbrous load of clay.But hark! I hear the boding owl,
With fearful screams at distance cry;
The evening breezes mournful howl,
And bats their nightly circles ply.Thick, sombre clouds obscur'd the sky,
And hid the moon's refulgent light--
No sparkling star shed cheerful ray.
To light the lonely shades of night.I grop'd my way with careful tread,
To shun the cold, unconscious urn,
And left the mansions of the dead,
Where soon or late I must return.For I must sleep with ages past,
And ages yet to come,
Till the last trump of God shall wake
Each tenant of the tomb.