Death Overcome

       Where faith in Jesus raises a dying man above the sufferings of nature, and a sinful man above the terrors of guilt, illuminating the closing scene with the hopes and very light of approaching glory, this close of life is the grandest of sunsets. Nowhere, does religion look so magnificent as amid such scenes. And never does she seem so triumphant as when, with her fingers closing the filmy eyes, she contemplates the peaceful corpse; and bending down to take one fond kiss of pallid lips, or marble brow, rises, and raises her hands to heaven, exclaims, Blessed are the dead! The battle done; the victory won; rest, warrior! workman! pilgrim!-rest! "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord; for they rest from their labors, and their works do follow them." Rev. Dr. Guthrie.

The Voices of The Dead...

       The world is filled with the voices of the dead. They speak not from the public records of the great world only, but from the private history of our own experience. They speak to us in a thousand remembrances, in a thousand incidents, events, associations. They speak to us, not only from their silent graves, but from the throng of life. Though they are invisible, yet life is filled with their presence. They are with us, by the silent fireside and in the secluded chamber: they are with us in the paths of society, and in the crowded assembly of men. They speak to us from the lonely way-side, and they speak to us, from the venerable walls that echo to the steps of a multitude, and to the voice of prayer. Go where we will, the dead are with us. We live, we converse, with those, who once lived and conversed, with us. Their well remembered tone mingles with the whispering breezes, with the sound of the falling leaf, with the jubilee
shout of the spring-time. The earth is filled with their shadowy train.
       But there are more substantial expressions of the presence of the dead with the living. The earth is filled with labors, the works, of the dead. Almost all the literature in the world, the discoveries of science, the glories of art, the ever-during temples, the dwelling-places of generations, the comforts and improvements of life, the languages, the maxims, the opinions, of the living, the very frame-work of society, the institutions of nations, the fabrics of empires‚ -all are the works of the dead; by these, they who are dead yet speak. Life-busy, eager, craving, importunate, absorbing life-yet what is its sphere,  compared with the empire of death! What, in other words, is the sphere of visible, compared with the mighty empire of invisible life! They live-they live indeed, whom we call dead. They live in our thoughts; they live in our blessings; they live in our life; -death hath no power over them." Rev. Orville Dewey, D. D.

Death The Gate of Life

       Oh! death!-dark hour to hopeless unbelief! hour to which, in that creed of despair, no hour shall succeed! being's last hour! to whose appalling darkness, even the shadows of an avenging retribution were brightness and relief-death! what art thou to the Christian's assurance? Great hour of answer to life's prayer-great hour that shall break asunder the bond of life's mystery-hour of release from life's burden‚-hour of reunion with the loved and lost-what mighty hopes, hasten to their fulfillment in thee! What longings, what aspirations-breathed in the still night, beneath the silent stars-what dread emotions of curiosity-what deep meditations of joy-what hallowed imaginings of never experienced purity and bliss-what possibilities shadowing forth unspeakable realities to the soul, all verge their consummation in thee! Oh! death! the Christian's death! what art thou but the gate of life, the portal of heaven, the threshold of eternity! Rev. Orville Dewey, D. D.

An Empty Nest: A Sonnet

An Empty Nest: A Sonnet

by Edwin Clarence Sprague

Deep in the forest dell I found a nest,

Empty and silent, swaying to and fro,

Rocked by the breezes that did gently blow,

Nor for a moment seemed to be at rest.

Wrecked was its structure by the brambles pressed;

Once 'twas the home wherein wee nestlings lie

Blinking with wonder at the summer sky,

Longing to soar upon its airy crest.

So may my soul be strengthened day by day,

And graced by patient waiting year by year,

That I might long to rise and soar away

When that last hour to me is drawing near

To that great realm, where in peace and rest, 

I'll leave-behind the old deserted nest.

The Belfry Pigeon

The Belfry Pigeon

by Nathaniel Parker Willis

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell

The nest of a pigeon is builded well

In summer and winter that bird is there,

Out and in with the morning air;

I love to see him track the street,

With his wary eye and active feet;

And I often watch him as he springs,

Circling the steeple with easy wings,

Till across the dial his shade has passed,

And the belfry edge is gained at last;

'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,

And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;

There's a human look in its swelling breast,

And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;

And I often stop with the fear I feel--

He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell--

Chime of the hour, or funeral knell--

The dove in the belfry must hear it well.

When the tongue swings out to the midnight

moon,

When the sexton cheerly rings for noon,

When the clock strikes clear at morning 

light,

When the child is waked with "nine at 

night,"

When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,

Filling the spirit with tones of prayer,--

Whatever tale in the bell is heard,

He broods on his folded feet unstirred,

Or, rising half in his rounded nest,

He takes the time to smooth his breast,

Then drops again, with filmed eyes,

And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

Sweet bird! I would that I could be

A hermit in the crowd like thee!

With wings to fly to wood and glen,

Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men;

And daily, with unwilling feet,

I tread, like thee, the crowded street, 

But, unlike me, when day is o'er,

Thou canst dismiss the world, and soar;

Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,

Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,

And drop, forgetful, to thy nest.

I would that, in such wings of gold,

I could my weary heart unfold;

I would I could look down unmoved

(Unloving as I am unloved),

And while the world throngs on beneath,

Smooth down my cares and calmly breathe;

And never sad with others' sadness,

And never glad with others' gladness,

Listen, unstirred, to knell or chime,

And, lapped in quiet, bide my time.

Thoughts In Sickness

Thoughts In Sickness

by Lord John Manners

I know not how it is, but man ne'er sees
The glory of this world, its streams, and trees,
Its thousand forms of beauty that delight
The soul, the sense, and captivate the sight
So long as laughing health vouchsafes to stay,
And charm the traveler on his joyous way.
No! man can ne'er appreciate this earth,
Which he has lived and joyed in from his birth,
Till pain or sickness from his sight removes
All that in health he valued not, yet loves.
Then, then it is he learns to feel the ties
Of earth and all its sweetest sympathies;
Then he begins to know how fair, how sweet,
Were all those flowers that bloomed beneath his
feet:
Then he confesses that before in vain,
The wild flowers flourished in the lonely plain: 
Then he remembers that the lark would sing,
Making the heavens with her music ring,
And he ungrateful never cared to hear
Those tuneful orisons at daybreak clear;
While all the glories that enrich this earth,
Crowd on the brain, and magnify its worth
Till truant fancy quits the couch of pain,
To rove in health's gay fields and woods again!
But when some pang his wandering sense recalls,
And chains the sufferer to his prison walls,
What to his anguish adds a sharper sting,
And plumes the feathers on affliction's wing?
W r hat but the thought that in his hour of health,
He slighted these, for glory, power, or wealth.
And, oh ! how trivial when compared to these,
Seem all those pleasures which are said to please!
At morn, when through the open lattice float
The hymns of praise from many a warbler's throat,
The sick man turns with pained and feverish start,
And groans in abject bitterness of heart.
Whence, say, ye vain ones, whence that soul-drawn
groan ?
Came it from anguish, or from pain alone?
Think ye, reflection was not busy there,
Borne on the sunbeam wafted by the air,
That speaks upbraiding, though its balmy voice
Whispers bright hopes, and bids his soul rejoice!
So feel I now, and should gay health once more
Glow in my frame, as it has glowed of yore,
Oh ! may I prove my thankfulness, and show
I feel the glory of all things below!

Journey To Heaven

       Our highest aspiration must wait. We are here to get through the world. Life is a road where we camp for a night on a journey to the golden gate and the setting sun; a traveler who sets up his tent at dark  does not plant corn or put out a grape-vine, if when the morning comes he expects to pull his tent down and march on. Men are born upon the shore of one ocean; by traveling lightly and never losing a moment, and marching bravely on, through forest, over desert, mountain and river, the traveler can  reach the other ocean in time to catch the little boat that slips out into the dark, and sails out of sight with God alone. But the traveler must not expect to plant harvests and grow vineyards while out upon his march. Yonder lie the happy hills of God. There no winter falls, there the summer sheds its warmth always upon the violet beds. There youth is perfect and beauty is eternal. There every ambition will be perfected, every dream realized; every hope turned to fruition, and the soul is a tree  waving its fruit and casting down its purple vintage at the feet of the God of the summer. - N. D. Hillis.