Where, then, I cried—where, then, is death? I looked above me, and the blue vault hung pure and motionless—light fleecy clouds like angels on their journeys, alone resting on its cerulean tint,—around, the evening breeze played calm and gently,—and beneath the flowers and leaves were quivering with delight, while the incessant hum of insect life, arising from the earth with ceaseless voice, still cried—“No—no—not here is death!”
Ah! said I, this beautiful world shall be forever, and there is—there is no death—but even as I spoke, a warning voice struck with deep solemnity upon my startled ear,—“Man that is born of woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”—And as I turned, the funeral procession—its minister and its mourners passed onward in their journey with the silent dead.
I looked after the retiring group, and again from beyond the coppice which intervened, heard rising in the same deep solemn tones,—“Write, from henceforth, blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; even so saith the spirit, for they rest from their labours,”—and my soul cowered within itself like a guilty thing, as it said—Amen.
I looked again upon the scene before me and sighed,—e’en such is human reason. That gorgeous sun shall set—the gay villas and verdant lawns,—the crowded shipping,—the beautiful bay with all that rest upon its bosom, shall soon be wrapt in darkness,—the gleaming watch-light disappear from yon tall battlement, as the bugle sounds its warning note,—the great fierce city be stilled in silence, while the beating hearts within her midnight shroud, like seconds, answer her tolling bells upon the dial of eternity,—and the insect myriads—the flowers and leaves—ay!—the great heavens themselves, shall from the darkness cry—“This is the portraiture of death!”—for the darkness and the silence are all that man can realize of death.
The hardy Northman with trembling finger points to the mouldering frame work of humanity, and shudders as he cries—“Lo! there is death!”—and the polished Greek smiles delightedly on the faultless statue of the lovely woman with the infant sleeping on her breast, as he also cries—“Lo! there is death!”—yet both alike with reverence do lay their final offering before his gloomy shrine.—The squalid Esquimaux scoops out the cavern in the never melting snows, for the frozen form whose conflicts with the grizzly bear and shuddering cold are done—and the mild Hindoo, with affection, feeds the funeral pyre, and as the fragrant column does arise, cries—“Soul of my brother—immortal soul, ascend!”—The red man, in the far distant prairie’s lonely wilds, pillows the head of the warrior-chief upon his slain desert steed within its mound, while the bronzed pioneer, throwing aside his axe and rifle, hastily dashes away the tear as he inhumes beneath its flowery bed his scar-marked comrade’s form.
The secluded village hamlet, with pious care, within the quiet grove, encloses a resting-place for its silent few, disappearing at long intervals;—and here those great living cities have chosen this silent city for their dead, falling like the forest leaves in autumn.
For the great army, who must ere long, march forth to ground their arms before the grim and ghastly Conqueror, ’twere difficult to find more beautiful and lovely resting place. E’en the sad mourner lingers as he beholds its broad and lovely lawns, stretched out in calm serenity before him;—its sylvan waters in their glassy stillness; its antique elms, arching with extended branches the long secluded lanes; its deep romantic glens; its rolling mounds, and all its varied scenery, ere with a softened sadness he turns him to his desolate and melancholy home. Oh! spirits of our departed ones! We know that you have gone forth from your human habitations, and that we shall behold your loved forms no more forever. Oh! therefore will we lay your deserted temples within this consecrated ground, and, in imagination, fondly see you sleeping still in tranquillity beneath its green and silent sward.
But lo! where upon the broad and verdant lawn, the loose clods and dark black mould heaped carelessly aside, the narrow pit awaits, ere it close again from light, its tenant in his dark and narrow house. The sorrowing group collect around, and the pall slowly drawn aside, one moment more exhibits to the loved ones, the pallid countenance of him about to be hidden from their sight forever. The weeping widow, in her dark habiliments, leans upon the arm of the stern, sad brother, her little ones clinging to her raiment in mingled awe and admiration of the scene before them. “Ashes to ashes”—how she writhes in anguish, as the heavy clods fall with hollow unpitying jar upon the coffin lid—how like a lifeless thing she hangs upon the supporting arm in which her countenance is buried in agony unutterable; and see the little ones, their faces streaming with wondering tears, clasping her hands; how in happy ignorance, they innocently, with fond endearing names, still call upon him to arise.
But the narrow grave is filled—the mourning group have gone—the evening shadows fall—the declining sun sinks beneath his gorgeous bed in the horizon, and in the thickening twilight, the dead lies in his mound—alone. The night advances—the stars arise, and the joyous constellations roll high onward in their majestic journeys in the o’erhanging heavens—but beneath—the tenant of the fresh filled grave, lies motionless and still. The morning sun appears, the dew, like diamonds, glitters on every leaf and blade of grass—the birds joyously carol, and the merry lark, upon the very mound itself, sends forth his cheerful note—but all is hushed, in silence, to the tenant who in his unbroken slumber sleeps within. The Autumn comes, and the falling leaves whirl withered from the tree tops, and rustle in the wind—the Winter, and the smooth broad plain lies covered with its pure and spotless cloak of driven snow, and the lowly mound is hid from sight, and shows not, in the broad midday sun, nor e’en at midnight, when the silver moon sailing onwards in her chaste journey turns the icicles into glittering gems, on the o’erhanging branches as they bend protectingly towards it. The Spring breathes warmly, and the little mound lies green again—and now the mother bending o’er it, lifts the rose and twines the myrtle, while the little ones in joyous glee from the surrounding meadows, bring the wild flowers and scatter them in unison upon its borders. Oh! then!—were consciousness within—then would the glad tenant smile.