Preble County Democrat. [volume] (Eaton, Ohio) 1857-1859, 1857-02-19
The Burial.

There was JOY on earth. The twit-
tering swallow, as it darted along in sun
shine and in shade, needed not the bit
ter wailings of affection and distress
the wild bird, in its noiseless fight, soft
ly, silent as falls the snow flake, seemed
unmindful of woe rs it flashed its wings
across the vision like the thought of a
dream during the hours of midnight,
and vanished as suddenly. To US the
sight of their joyous felicity brought no
gladness. The sounds of their mirth
fell coldly upon the heart. 1t seemed
but bitter mockery and spoke of days
Fdeparted The bright and languishing g
skies seemed insensible that they were
smiling over ruin and decay: that one
of hopes fairest and sweetest flowers
had dropped and died, and now, even
now, was to be laid in the earth's cold
bosom.
We had seen the child in all its guilt
less beauty, when it was Il thing glow
ing with health, innocence and joy
We had seen it in the arms of her that
bore it, in all the overfowing kindness
of a mothers love. We had heard that
little voice singing its joyful note like
sweetest music; had seen those little
hands stretched to the bosom of its
mother, twining round her like tendrils
round the parent stem. But now, her
blessing youngest, loveliest slept
not on the bosom of maternal tender.
ness, but with the quiet dead That
voice was hushed and silent as an un-
strung harp. Death death how love-
ly thou canst be. Though pale and
lifeless, it wore smile, passionless and
pure as the chcrub of Immortality. 1t
had nothing Of the corpse about it but
its wk;tcncss, nothing of the grave but
its stiffness. So beautiful he seemed
like the lamb decked with the fowery
garland for the sacrifice. We would
fain have lain down at its side, in the
cold bosom of our common mother-on
the dark and silent hill.
Thou weepest, fond mother. All
well thou mayst. How hard is it for
thee to lay thy loved one low in the
damp earth, beneath the cold clods of
the valley. Hard is it to reflect that
this, thy child of peerless beauty, will
never more raise its rosy lips to thine
in all the fondncss of childhood's warm
affection. These are recollections that
weigh upon their eonl even to overpow-
erin5s Memory tolls thee thou art dos
olate. 1t tells too of playful smiles, of
a thousand winning ways that twine
around mothers heart 1t tells ofthe
sweet throbbings of unspeakable bliss,
that were there when softly soothing
him to slumbcr and repose. Now, the
foliage of the willow will be his shelter,
and the narrow house his abiding place.
The nursery will no more resound with
his gladsome mirth, the cradle in which
he had often reposed in quiet, is now
dcsolate. God help thee, fond moth
er
The last look The time has come
when she may gaze once more upon her
sleeping boy, ere the pail is settled up
on his lifelcss brow! Oh! the bitter ag-
ony of that moment! One long, burn
ing kiss upon his marble forehead, and
is shut, forever shut from her view.
Look abroad, fond mother, on the
ways Of sinful men, and repine no more
that God hath made thy child an angel
in the regions of bliss. Now his song
with the Thanksgiving of the
blest. Sanctifed, safe and secure from
the stormy blasts of iniquity, with Him
who is from everlasting.