Some minds have seemed firm enough, it is true, to maintain triumphantly this last terrible struggle, and resist in a measure at least the depressing influence of disease. Such instances cannot, however, be numerous; and we should be prepared rather to sympathize with and make all due allowance for human weakness. I have seen such moments of yielding as it was deeply painful to witness, at the bedside of many of the best of men, whose whole lives had been a course of consistent goodness and piety, when warned of impending death, and called on to make those preparations which custom has unfortunately led us to look upon as gloomy landmarks at the entrance of the dark valley.
One of these, from youth to age a most esteemed and valued member of one of our most fervent religious bodies, with sobs and tears, and loud wailing, threw the pen and paper from him, exclaiming, over and over again, “I will not—I cannot—I must not die.” Like the eccentric Salvini, of whom Spence tells us that he died, crying out in a great passion, “Je ne veux pas mourir, absolument;” and Lannes, the bravest of Bonaparte’s marshals, when mortally wounded, struggled angrily and fearfully, shouting with his last breath, “Save me, Napoleon!”
But I recoil from farther discussion of a topic so full of awe and solemn interest, and conclude this prosaic “Thanatopsis” with the Miltonian strain of Bryant, who terminates his noble poem, thus styled, in language worthy of the best age and brightest laurel of our tongue:—
“So live, that, when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan, that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not like the quarry slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.”
[7] From Essays on Life, Sleep, Pain, etc., just published by Blanchard & Lea, Philadelphia.
Time passes wearily with me Since thou hast joined the spirit throng; I miss thy laugh that rang with glee— The music of thy voice and song; And though each day I meet bright eyes, That look with tenderness on mine, And cheeks that with the coral vies, And tones that seem almost divine, Still they can wake no gentle chord To vibrate deeply in the heart; For each bright glance and gentle word, Must fail to charm while we’re apart. Then speed thee, Time, upon thy way. Swift on thy fleeting pinions soar; And hasten on that blissful day, When we shall meet to part no more.