Edgefield advertiser. [volume] (Edgefield, S.C.) 1836-current, 1853-03-23

beings are 4 .::s :.ii: .uucar..h JN@.y hr'..tt
you breathe is human death knell. This
sky is canopy of a great death chamber.
This earth is cavernous and mighty sepul-
chre. And our times are appointed Our
days are numbered For set time and an
appointed, is-"The time to diep'
"There is time to diew For whom! !!
Oh, for all of us-for you to die, and for me.
Difficult know it is to realize this most
difficult to impress it on the living conscience.
| can believe that others are mortal. | can
believe that the dearest ones on earth will
lie cold, and shrouded and cofined in the
grave. But alas, can scarcely bring it
home to my own heart that death will come
to me-that this hand will soon be pulseless
this voice soon be hushed forever-this
heart beat no more--this forehead pressed
down by the coffin lid and the cold, dark
earth. But yet, as sure as God liveth, it
comes-death comes--to all! Youth, be.
loved youth will die ere the spring brightens.
Aged man-you whose headis crown of
glory in our midst-a few more days, and
those gray locks will be put away from that
forehead for the mourners to look upon.-
Dear child, you will lie in little coffin, cold,
senseess, silent as the dead lie. Man-man
in your noble stature and unbent strength
that flashing eye will fade-that mighty
heart w break. Oh, | seeitl A darkened
chambe friends gathering silently and sad
ly--bel~ |ed forms pressing to the bedside
a pale face, Il convulsed framework. Oh,
l hear 1.-THE wild farewell-the breath
drawn gaspingly--the broken.hearted sob.
bing of mother, of husband, of wife, of child.
Oh, I see it--lhe shroud-the coffin--the
ber--the funeral train-the open grave!
But whose? do you ask-whose alas, yours
and yours and yours. Oh, my God, what,
what is life! A cloud, a vapor, dream that
vanshcth--,a tale that is toId--a walk blind.
folded amid open graves, and on the brink
of great precipces.
In yonder prison there lies aman appoint
ed 10 execution. All appeals for executive
cemency have been in vain. On such day,
in such month, he dies. Oh! if he could
come and stand in this place, how he would
preach to you. How think you the time
seems to him9 How terrible these morning
and evening bells that measure his being
How awful the slow movement of sunbeams
along his dungeon walls! How wild each
hourly stroke on the great time-keeper -
How every sound on the dull ear, and every
shadow that creeps through the gloomy cell,
seems the football, the whisper, the shadow
of that dread thing, Death! Death! And yet,
is he nearer to death surely than we9 Why,
where is death--away yonder9 Nay, sirs;
he is here--here-sitting in these seats
walking through these aisles--his shadow
falls between speaker and hearer-death is
here! Where is eternity-years away9 Nay,
here--lust behind that curtain. Hark this
little knock sounds through-death and eter-
nifty are here. We sometimes picture life as
o great path, leading to precipice. But
this is not true; it is narrow path, right
along precipice The verge crumbles now.
Oh my God write it on our hearts-send
from the grave of the glorious dead a voice,
to bring the mighty truth in thunder on our
slunibering souls.