"Ah! those little ice-cold fingers,
How they point our memories back
To the hasty words and actions,
Strewn along our backward track!
How those little hands remind us,
As in snowy grace they lie,
Not to scatter thorns—but roses,
For our reaping by and by."
We perceive here that ruthless death with his scythe pays no regard to infantile age, and that others in the vigour of their youthful prime as well as the matured adult and hoary-headed have been suddenly cut down by an awful surprise.
Here is a grave planted with flowers, the stone at the head of the grave states that William Gobell was accidentally killed on the London and Brighton Railway, March 4th, 1873, aged 65 years. Here is another stone in affectionate remembrance of William James, late Engine driver on the L.B. and S.C.R., who was killed while in the execution of his duty on the 29th of July 1876, aged 38 years. This stone has been erected by his fellow mates, as a token of respect to his memory.
Another stone is erected in memory of Henry Blunden, who was killed on the L. and S. W. Ry., on the 17th October, 1871, aged 22 years.
"All you that come my grave to see,
Oh think of death and remember me,
Just in my prime and folly skilled;
When on the Railway I was killed,
Take warning, hear, and do not weep,
But early learn thy grave to seek."
Sacred to the memory of Thomas Hutchinson Higerty, who departed this life October 13th, 1869, aged 5 years and 2 months.
How very soon is age upon us,
Ere we know our way to earth,
But in heaven there's no sorrow,
There's nothing but joy and mirth.
How soon hath time closed around us,
First a child and then a man,
How soon he's turned to mouldering dust
Which from a few years back he sprang.
The head-stone states that the above lines were written by his brother, aged twelve years.
I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial ground God's acre! It is just:
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.
God's acre! yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had gathered in their hearts,
Their bread of life—alas! no more their own.
Into its furrows shall we all be cast,
In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that sacred birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume
With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.
Longfellow.[1]
[1] The word Sepulchre comes from the Latin Sepelio to bury. It is the place where the dead body of a human being is consigned, whether it be in the ground or an excavation in the rocks.