Sentinel of the valley. [volume] (Woodstock, Va) 1841-1848, 1846-02-12
THE LAST LOOK.

There are few in this world who have
not lost somo near and dear friend, lin
ked to them either by the ties of blood
or by a pleasant companionship en-
shrined in their hearts, and hallowed
and held sacred by true and disinter-
ested affection. The insatiate tomb
has robbed almost every one whom it
has spared, of some being on whom
his eye rested with pleasure, who sof-
tened for him the asperities of life's
rough pathway, and into whose bosom
he poured his own hearts rich treas
ures-feelings, confidence and love-
They have seen them droop and die
gradually, perhaps. They have seen
the rose fade, the flesh waste, the mus
Giles relax, and the eye grow lustreless,
or beam with that unnatural light which
is sometimes born Of disease, and only
tells of its progress. They have watch
ed in grief and tears the shiftings of fe-
ver-the slow sinking away of life, the
hours Of agony, the days of quiet and
apparent conyalescence, the hopeless
relapse, and the final triumph of death.
They have paced the room where the
poor body lay shrouded for the grave,
and where Death almost seemed visibly
present, casting shadow upon every
wall and object, and gazed on the rigid
form, the marble aspect, the soulless,
unspeaking features. They have felt,
too, that damp oppression and heart
sickness which comes over every one
upon such an occasion, where the grim
tyrant seems to be watching and gloa-
ting over his victim, and the riot of de-
cay is already beginning to be SEEM
All This has lacerated and crushed their
hearts but perhaps the bitterest pang
of all came with the last look into the
grave, when the coffin had been lower
ed, the loved object consigned TO its
long, dreamless rest, and the busy
spade of the sexton was throwing back
the senseless esrth upon it, and hiding
it forever.
During sickness we have the object
before US, wasted and sadly changed
it may be, but still capable Of commu-
ming with US, of approaching our kind
ness, of returning our love, and of
throwing a few rays of sunlight over
the cloud Of our sorrow-faint, indeed,
but still enough to gild lis gathering
gloom. There is still the old smile
running now and then over the features,
and lighting them up with something
of their former expression. The voice,
too, though it is no, what it once was,
falls upon our ears, and we follow our
friend with a sort of lingering hope,
convinced ofhis doom, yet half looking
for dejiverance, down TO the very banks
Of deaths river. And even when that
voice is hushed and the last smile has
faded, when the bolt of doom has been
launched, and the wreck of mortality
lies before US, we somehow take me-
lancholy pleasure in gazing at the ex-
presslonless features, and linger in
blind devotion at the shrine, though the
delty Wnlcn halloWed 1t has departed!
But when we gaze into the closing
grave, we feel that our friend has in
deed gone and hidden from us forever.
He has made his final exit from the
stage of life, the curtain has fallen, and
we shall see him no more, till we our
selves shall pass behind the scenes.
We know that we can listen 10 his
voice no more breathing eloquence in
public, or cheerfulness in the daily in
tercourse Of life. We can never gaze
into his eyes again, flashing with gent
us, beaming with kindness, or shedding
tears for human suffering. We shall
meet him no more in the busy crowd,
OF At the quiet Preside. The grave has
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