But not long was her beautiful, heroic life to brighten that lone and desolate spot. In the fall of 1841 she fell into delicate health, and symptoms of consumption soon manifested themselves. She was removed to the house of her sister at Bamborough, on the coast. It was thought she would get better when the Spring came--but it was not so. She still continued to fail--to fade and fade away. She was taken to Alnwick, from which she was to proceed to Newcastle for medical advice. While at Alnwick, the Duchess of Northumberland treated her with all a sister's kindness--sent her own physician to her--supplied her with every luxury, and better than all, went often to see her, very plainly dressed, and without a single attendant. She had the good sense to lay aside as it were, her coronet--forget her title before the better nobility of that dying girl--and so proved herself something far greater than a Duchess--a true and loving woman.
Grace was soon taken back to Bamborough, that she might meet death with all her loved ones around her. And there, in the place where she was born, she died, on the 20th of October, 1842. She took leave of all her friends calmly, and very tenderly--giving to each one something to keep in remembrance of her--then meekly folded her hands on her breast, and slept in God's peace. She was buried within sound of the sea--within sight perhaps of the lighthouse, and the rock of the wreck--and the sea seems to mourn for her now, and the lighthouse and the rock are her monuments.
Yet, though Grace Darling should be forgotten on earth, though the lighthouse should fall--the rock crumble away--the sea cease to murmur of her--her name shall not perish, for it is written in the Lord's "Book of Life," and she dwells now where storms and death cannot come, and where "there is no more sea."
Our dear Lord Jesus, thou didst call Young children once to thee-- Didst hold them in thy loving arms, And bless them tenderly;-- Now, like those children, let us come And gather round thy knee.
Oh teach us that God dwelleth here-- These woods his leafy shrines-- That incense rises from the flowers, And fragrant swinging vines, And wordless psalms swell up from out The solemn sounding pines.