66 dark pall was flung into strong contrast by the foliage on either side. It approached the white wooden gate, and the bell ceased its mournful tune to give way to the no less mournful voice of the words of hope which He had first spoken who was The Resurrection and the Life," as the Clergyman of the parish uttered them. Then they placed the coffin low in the ground, and weeping friends stood near to look their last farewell. Near also stood the children, assembled from the scattered hamlets in sympathetic quietness. The sparrows were chirping, seemingly more loud for the silence. Near also was the sexton, with unconcerned demeanour, ready to perform his professional duty. And above all, above the sparrows, above the mourners, with beams glad or sorrowful as he shone on hearts that reflected his beams in smiles or tears, shone the calm sun as he went on his old way. What is Death? said I, as I jumped from my mossy seat, to pace the gravel path. If death be the pillow on which the weary head shall lie down and rest, why weep for the resting one? If the grave be the goal where human hope, that goeth here long time in rough and stony paths of distress and soul anguish, find the chariot of fire that shall convey it to the land of the blessed, why shed tears over the destiny of the happy one? If the released spirits wander in elysian fields and rest on beds of asphodel, why plant the cypress and the yew over the grave? If death is the portal of life, the gate that leads to the world immortal, why sculpture the drooping angel and the inverted torch on the white tombstone? Can it be that our grief is selfish, that we mourn for the happy smiles, the social converse which the tongue now dumb for ever was wont to yield? Do we mourn because the only arm that could protect in the wide world is powerless to help us now, and we must do lonely battle through many troublous days? Such suggestions only add new pain to the afflicted heart. What then is the cause of our grief? Why do we go softly and mournfully? As if in answer, the sparrows chirped louder and louder. No, no, unthinking birds. Indifference or even joy does not become those who stand on the hallowed spot where our brothers take their long and unbroken rest on the windy hill side. We could not brook the burial of our dead in the midst of the village green, where the children from the school would laugh and gambol. Though sorrow bound our brother in harsh and cruel chains which death had broken, yet could we not celebrate his interment with the marriage feast and the bridal song? Such accompaniments would jar on the tender and loosened strings of the soul, and produce only confusion. The tears, that well up to our eyes, glisten with the pale sadness of the heart! the gentle wail of the spirit heard not beyond its own precincts, finds no fit utterance but in the sable and the mournful; these it puts on as its proper garments, therewith it may in stillness say its grief to the world, and bid the footstep draw lightly near. In vain do we point upward and whisper the words of a creed that should comfort; from the uplifted eye falls the big drops, and trickling slowly down the cheeks suffocate the amen the lips would utter! Is death the separation of closely woven ties and associations? Is it that we miss the occupant of the vacant chair? Is it that we lose the harmony of the voice, the touch of the hand, or the beaming eye? The brother that has gone to the neighbouring town is also missed, but he is not wept for, he will return to-morrow; but the other, the one in the churchyard, he will return no more. O death! thou dark stream which has followed us since birth in all our pilgrimage; of whose waters, impelled by higher power, we must all drink, why dost thou follow us with such strange and unmurmuring tread? How closely dost thou follow us, even where we stumble among the rocks, and go wandering and crying, and where we trip along the pleasant dale, with bright things around us. We know not how soon we may have to kneel and taste thy black waters. O unfathomable stream! called by mortals death, what is thy name in the heaven where the immortal dwell? The evening was gathering in chilly. The sun had flung his red good night into the sky and sunk, and the sparrows were roosting; a little wind rustled among the leaves of the ivy, and stirred the long grass; the sexton was gone, and the noiseless sceptre of night was stretched over the landscape. sought my room. So I That night I turned over the words of revelation. I read the utterance of prophets, and they filled my soul with their holy meaning. The finger of God was on my heart thrilling it with strange emotions. I looked to the teachings of Him who came "to bring immortality to light.' I found how his mighty hand smote deeper chords than any other. The swelling music came round me and I felt its sacred inspiration. Then asked I, What is Death? But there was no God-written word for answer. I tremblingly communed with my own soul; my whole being shook, as the wind shakes the autumnal bough; I listened for answer, but there was no word for the soul to speak its deep meaning in; there was a fear and an aspiration, a foreboding of joy and sorrow, which ran through the soul like the murmur of waves, but there was no answer. Answer! How vain for the creature to endeavour to comprehend its destiny, and look beyond the strange horizon where the human meeteth the divine! Let him that hath ears to hear listen to the strong cry of the fact, proclaiming with loud voice, “I am here, mortal! prepare for the battle." Hard as the fact may be, it is of no manner of use to kick against it. Rather let us make the fact our pillow; like Jacob, let us gather these stones of the place, which lie all around us, and without question as to whence or wherefore, put them for a resting place. Let us then in trembling hopefulness pray for visions of heaven; for angel-like thoughts of light and beauty, to pass to and fro from our hearts to the central heart of God; then the world will grow divine, and we shall become holy; then we shall find all we can wish for in the Bible, and all we can desire in the words of the Christ. Then our question will be, What shall I do to inherit eternal life? A question perfectly legitimate, and capable of answer. And so we find it written, "Keep the commandments;" again, "Love is the fulfilling of the law; and "He that loveth not his brother abideth in death." God has set one thing over against another. The great fact of death is answered by the great fact of love. We all know what love is; we can all cultivate its hallowing feelings. Love to the God who made us, puts us at unity with the whole of his works. It strikes down the walls of self and lets in the broad Light of the universe, and with the Light the Life thereof. "Perfect love casteth out fear." There is no shadow on the soul where there is no evil. It cometh boldly to the light, rejoicing in the knowledge that there is no condemnation to them that are in Christ Jesus. 66 Who is he that condemneth?" The Christian puts the question boldly, but no foe appears. With a full heart, as I lay me down to sleep, I thanked God for his Christianity, and the grand answer it gave to life's hard riddles. I again asked, What is Death? And as the harmonious joys of the immortal ones come adown the skies and break on our ears, the stern countenance of death beams with the smiles of a friend, and I exclaim as much in surprise as in victory, "O death, where is thy sting?" Bearsted. S. G. J. THE FOOTPRINTS. ALL wearily and painfully thou tread'st thy heavenward way, Now shuddering in the midnight gloom, now parched by noon tide ray; And hidden dangers near thy feet are lurking evermore, Yet, fear not thou to go the road, thy Saviour went before. For never may the sunbeam cast about thy path such glare, there; Nor night so darkly veil thy sky, but yet some eastern star Oh, mark them well; they falter not, nor ever swerve aside, They print the wild and rocky waste, and thread the thorny brake, Sad records of such bitter throes as we may never know, And there the track is lost, thick shade and darkness o'er it close, And is this all? A pilgrim life in toil and peril past, Is this the end? Nay look above, the glowing summer sky, thrown. |