Till summoned in victory, honor and love,
To stand in the ranks that are waiting above,
And on their cleared vision God’s glory shall burst,
Re-united in Heaven, the old Twenty-first.
The meek brown-eyed little maiden who, in 1836, left the scenes of her childhood at the age of fifteen had returned crowned with laurel, in 1912, then seventy-six years a veteran in the service of humanity. Impressive in its simplicity is that home coming which occurred at Oxford. In Memorial Hall had assembled gray-haired men and women who had known her from her youth. In that hall were the children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren of the playmates of her childhood. The hall had been decorated by loving hands; flowers of rare beauty gently had been placed near the temporary altar. By her request her beloved pastor was there to invoke Him who was highest in service to humanity; to speak words of cheer and to bespeak immortality. Songs were sung, prayers were said, eulogies of her real character pronounced, and the long line of personal friends accompanied her to the Silent Home of her ancestors. Still clad as from youth in her fair robes of charity, there she lives and sleeps and sleeps and lives.
The Cradle and the Tomb
Alas! so nigh.
No bugle sound reached the ear, no crack of the soldier’s rifle rent the air, no war hero’s honors were hers; hers were the honors of a gentle maiden that came to save life, not to destroy it. Into the open earth that received her, and on the grassy slope of the hill, lovingly were dropped flowers of sentiment; among these the red rose, the flower she loved best; the lily, symbol of immortality. There Valor proudly sleeps,—there almost in sight of the birthplace; where her eyes greeted, first, the Christmas Morn; where she was rocked in her rude wooden cradle; where her baby fingers had pressed against the window pane and her eyes looked out upon innocent nature; where she had romped with other children in the wildwood, gathered wild flowers in the field, ridden untamed horses, skated upon the smooth surface of frozen waters, learned life’s early lessons at home and in the school-room; where she had said “goodbye” to childhood, to enter public service. There, after more than four score years and ten, death was still almost amidst her baby playthings. Only a few steps from her cradle to the grave and yet, on that short journey, she had taken millions of steps for humanity. At the end of her journey is her memorial tribute to those she loved; waving appreciative is the flag she served; looming significant is the Memorial Red Cross, a memorial that gives expression to “a world of memories, a world of deeds, a world of tears and a world of glories;” and, as was said of another great American at his passing, Clara Barton now belongs to the ages.
THE FINALE
After the ceremonies at the cemetery, concluding with the hymn “Nearer, My God, to Thee,” the following conversation took place, at a christening: