No. CII.
Death is rarely more unwelcome to any, than to those, who reasonably suppose the perils of the deep to be fairly passed, and who are permitted, after a long sojourn in other lands, to look once again upon their own—so near withal, that their eyes are gladdened, by the recognition of familiar landmarks; and who, in the silent chancel of their miscalculating hearts, thank God, that they are at home at last—and yet, in the very midst of life and joy, they are in death!
There has ever seemed to me to be something exceedingly impressive, in the death of that eminent patriot, Josiah Quincy. He died when the bark, which bore him homeward was in sight of land—the headlands of Gloucester, April 26, 1775—
——Dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.
Few men, of our own country, have accomplished more, or acquired a more honorable celebrity, at the early age of thirty-one.
His was a death in the common course of nature. I more especially allude, at this moment, to death as it occurs, from shipwreck, on one’s own shores, when the voyage is apparently at an end, and the voyagers are anticipating an almost immediate reunion with their friends.
The frequency of these occurrences revives, at the present moment, the sentiment of Horace, delivered some eighteen centuries ago—
Illi robur et æs triplex
Circa pectus erat, qui fragilem truci
Commisit pelago ratem
Primus.——————