Having carefully arranged his affairs, and provided for the wife and children whom he loved, and disposed of his great estate, he retired to his chamber and folded his mantle about him to die as he had lived, with decency. Weary and worn, perhaps disappointed, certainly disenchanted, disillusioned of all the bright dreams of his green manhood—let us follow him there: be ye sure that sacred chamber was not haunted by memories of evil deeds, of sins that had sorrowfully come home at nightfall—with hopes that had borne no fruit, with resolves abandoned almost as soon as formed. His strength failed him more and more; painlessly he sinks into the lethargy of approaching death, while his children gather around his couch. What are the last feeble syllables which they hear from the dying lips of this gray-haired veteran—"I am tired now. I am going to my mother in Heaven."
Perhaps he knew that there were some heavy items underscored against him, but he also knew that the mercy of God can even outdo the hope He gives us for token and keepsake. A greater and a grander end, after a life of mark and power, might, to his early aspirations and self-conscious strength, have seemed the bourne intended. If it had befallen him—as but for himself it would have done—to appear more actively in official life, where men are moved by ambition and bold decision, his name would have been more famous in history—but perhaps also better known to the devil. As it was, he lay there dying, and was well content. The turbulence of his life was past, the torrent and the eddy, the attempt at fore-reaching upon his age, and the sense of impossibility, the strain of his mental muscles to stir the "great dead trunks of orthodoxy"—and then, the self-doubt, the chill, the depression which follow such attempts, as surely as ague tracks the pioneer—thank God, all this was over now—the violence gone—and the dark despair. Of all the good and evil things which he had known and felt, but two yet dwelt in the feeble heart—only two still showed their presence in his dying eyes and words. Each of these two were good—if two indeed they were—faith in the Heavenly Father, and love of the earthly children.
"When the young are stricken down, and their roses nipped in an hour by the destroying blight, even the stranger can sympathize, who counts the scant years on the gravestone, or reads the notice in the newspaper corner. The contrast forces itself upon you. A fair young creature, bright and blooming yesterday, distributing smiles, levying homage, inspiring desire, conscious of her power to charm, and gay with the natural enjoyment of her conquests—who, in his walk through the world has not looked on many such a one; and, at the notion of her sudden call away from beauty, triumph, pleasure, her helpless outcries during her short pain, her vain pleas for a little respite, her sentence and its execution, has not felt a shock of pity? When the days of a long life come to their close, and a white head sinks to rise no more, we bow our own with respect as the mourning train passes, and salute the heraldry and devices of yonder pomp, as symbols of age, wisdom, deserved respect, merited honor—long experience of suffering and action. The wealth he has achieved is the harvest he has sowed; the title on his hearse, fruits of the field he bravely and laboriously wrought in. Around his grave are unseen troops of mourners waiting; many and many a poor pensioner trooping to the place; many weeping charities; many kind actions; many dear friends beloved and deplored, rising up at the toll of that bell to follow the honored hearse; dead parents waiting above, and calling 'come son,' lost children, heaven's foundlings, hovering around like cherubim, and whispering 'welcome, father.'"
"Here lies one who reposes after a long feast, where much love has been; here slumbers, in patience and peace, a veteran, with all his wounds in front, and not a blot on his scutcheon after fourscore years of duty well done in the fierce and ceaseless campaign of life."
"Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
"That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That no one life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;
"That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivel'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.
"Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last—far off—at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.
"So runs my dream; but what am I?
An infant crying in the night;
An infant crying for the light;
And with no language but a cry."