THE CALM OF DEATH.
Clasp the hands meekly over the still breast—they’ve no more work to do; close the weary eyes—they’ve no more tears to shed; part the damp locks—there’s no more pain to bear. Closed is the ear alike to Love’s kind voice, and Calumny’s stinging whisper.
Oh! if in that stilled heart you have ruthlessly planted a thorn; if from that pleading eye you have carelessly turned away; if your loving glance, and kindly word, and clasping hand, have come—all too late—then God forgive you! No frown gathers on the marble brow as you gaze—no scorn curls the chiselled lip—no flush of wounded feeling mounts to the blue-vein temples.
God forgive you! for your feet, too, must shrink appalled from death’s cold river—your faltering tongue ask, “Can this be death?”—your fading eye linger lovingly on the sunny earth—your clammy hand yield its last faint pressure—your sinking pulse give its last feeble flutter.
Oh, rapacious grave; yet another victim for thy voiceless keeping! What! no word or greeting from all thy household sleepers? No warm welcome from a sister’s loving lips? No throb of pleasure from the dear maternal bosom?
Silent all!
Oh, if these broken links were never gathered up! If beyond Death’s swelling flood there were no eternal shore! If for the struggling bark there were no port of peace! If athwart that lowering cloud sprang no bright bow of promise!