  "If a man die, shall he live again?"—Job xiv. 14. Thou man of Uz,— The query which thy fevered organs framed, Unanswered still re-echoes in our ears. Thy desolate interrogating cry, Born of affliction, grievous and extreme, Bridging the gulf of fleeting centuries, Finds our weak tongues as impotent as thine, To voice reply in accents void of doubt. Though in our breasts awakening response, 'Tis but a repetition of thy plaint, A faint reverberation of thy cry. We peer into the darkness, but descry Nor form, nor semblance, with our bootless gaze; We call and list with ears attuned to hear; No sound is wafted, and no glimmering ray Breaks from that night, unlit by moon or star; Nor gleam, nor spark, nor modicum of light Is flashed from out the precincts of the tomb. Death is the final principle of life, The culmination of vicissitude, The silent archer, whose unerring shaft Doth pierce at last the most unyielding breast; The reaper after whose fell harvesting, No gleaner bends nor follows in his wake. The gold of Ophir, and the pearls of Ind, The sapphires and the rubies of the East, Or all the treasures, which the fabled Gnomes, In subterranean vaults and passages Have guarded, multiplied by countless sums, With Euclid's most exalted numeral In computation, as the multiple Of least proportion, for the passing breath Can purchase neither respite nor reprieve, Nor can prolong it, by one feeble gasp. Nor fragrant balm, nor sweet preservative, Nor caustic alkaloid, nor bitter herb From Nature's various dispensary, Elixir, lotion, nor restorative, Nor prophylactic nor catholicon Nor pharmacy's most potent stimulant Can long retard the swift but viewless flight, Of that mysterious thing we call the Soul. Nor exorcism, nor the mystic power Of incantation, nor of talisman, Nor words of solemn theurgy pronounced, Can break or dissipate that pallid spell; Nor necromancy, nor phylactery, Nor touch of magic wand, nor subtle force Of conjuration, nor of sorcery, prevails Against the shadows of the tomb; Nor all the baleful arts of witchery, Nor amulet withstand the charm of death. Yea, man who rules the passive elements, Enchaining them to service at his will, Himself to death must yield obedience. Yea, man who, through all disadvantages And obstacles, has hewed his way aloft, From out the labyrinth of ignorance, Who sways the sceptre over conquered realms, Of latent energy and unseen force, Without condition or conceding term, Surrenders to that sombre potentate. Nor can in earth's remotest solitude, In forest depths or undiscovered isle, In dismal cavern or secretive cave Escape the mandate of that grizzly King. Nor wing of eagle, nor the fabled wings Of hippogrif, of such velocity As clothes the lightning and the thunderbolt, Outstrip in speed the shadowy wings of death. We pass along an ever-travelled road, Worn by the silent and continuous tread Of throngs innumerable, of every clime; The countless generations of the past, The uncomputed hosts and multitudes Who trod the earth in ages most remote, And those whose pale emaciated forms The generous earth hath recently received, The myriads of every race and tongue Who have preceded us, have sent no word Of cheer or comfort from that silent strand, And no directions for our timorous steps. "I love the lake in the mountain's lap." "See page 125" Grim Dissolution knows no favorites, But in his multiplicity of shapes Invades alike, with stern resistless step, The squalid hovel with its noisome air, And palace most replete with opulence; Those of exalted station, and the hordes To whom existence means but servitude, Who see the golden sun arise and bring No intermission from their ceaseless toil, Who hope for respite only with the night; Those who in dread reluctance shrank from death, And those who neither knew nor cared the hour, To life and death alike indifferent, Or fain themselves would snap the fragile thread; Mankind in all conditions and degrees Of culture, affluence and penury, Of multiform endowments and desires, With differing talents and proclivities, Yea, all varieties and types of men, With pathways various and diversified, Have found their paths converging at the grave. Each, as the gathering shadows of the night, In solemn chaos of unfathomed gloom, Descend in sombre, melancholy pall, And mark apace life's transitory eve, Must quaff, alike, the bitter draught of death, The one libation in which all who breathe May in all equity participate. Each, at the expiration of his span, Has found the same relentless terminal, And faltering on dissolution's brink, With what of strength, or guilt or innocence Did mark the tenor of his brief career, Has passed up to the margin of the grave, Then disappeared forever. What is Death? We know not, yet in verity we feel That, though of most immediate concern, And shrouded deep in sable mystery, Though most abstruse, intangible and strange, 'Tis not of our volition and control! It therefore proves, as life doth ever prove, With all abundant plenitude of proof, A Force superior to human strength, And should afford no premises for fear. [FINIS] |
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