Cincinnati daily press. [volume] (Cincinnati [Ohio]) 1860-1862, 1860-05-09
A visit to Spring Grovc-Passins Renec-
tfOus.
NUMBER 1,

Whatever aids to rob the tomb of the terror
with which so many associate it. should be
encouraged; who ever lays flower upon a
grave is benefactor,
By some mysterious ineans,-by lack of
reason OF proper education, by fondness for
life or an excess Of vanity, death is usually a
phantom, disturbing all our dreams of the
future. Death is natural as sleep and as ben
eticial and necessary no doubt; and yet il
ever seems unnatural, and, though friend, is,
for the most part deemed foe.
With all our pretentions Christianity, we
lack the simple faith of the Moravians,
who regard death as blessing and the dead
as blessed AS we advance and develop
spiritually, we will more clearly see the great
truth-that departure from this sphere is a
release from bondage, an escape from toll, n
surcease of care and pain.
The famous Viscount Verulam has said: II
is the dark surroundings of death, the bier
the pail, the weeping friends,-not death
ltselt-that make terrible the exodus of life
Hence, the last resting place of the dead, if
adorned and beautifed, has moral and
soothing influence which, while it deprives
the grave of half its horror robs il of all its
repulsiveness.
To this fact, doubtless, we are indebted for
the beautiful cemeteries, the fower-bordered
walks, the artificial lakes, the sculptured
the loved and lost: to this we owe our own
Spring Grove, which, as a metropolis, is
equaled by few, and surpassed by none
Despite the sadness associated with the
spot, melancholy satisfaction arises from
breathing its peaceful atmosphere, which
sanctifies, while it tranquilizes, the spirit of
the wanderer there. As we stroll, in medita-
tive mood, through the verdure-bordered
walks, and read the various inscriptions on
bn he ,,,o 1oNs,
life and the future; and, rejecting on the
stern fate Of man, his inevitable doom of suf-
fering, his destined disappointments, we al
most long TO lie with those who seem so
utterly emancipated, so entirely at rest
Each of the many hundreds who sleep be-
meath the sod had aspirations and ambitions,
joys and sorrows, loves and hatreds, as we
have. Their history was ours. They strug-
gled, suffered and died. and there the end
was to all they hoped and dreamed. Sphynx-
like existence, who can guess thy riddles?
Man, thou worm-god, how impotent thy
efforts
What is beauty, genius, wealth or power
what more than deformity, ignorance, poverty
or weaknessl They all terminate here: they
descend alike TO dust. No crown nor casket
norchapletis borne across the mysterious river
divividing the Actual from the Unknown
Tragedies and epics unwritten and un-
II.
The hand that lifted the dagger to destroy,
moulders by the once taper fingers whose
touch was tumultuous bliss. The white locks
of selfish age are almost entwined with the
golden treSses of a head which love had bound
with halos of happiness. The reckless de-
bauchee nearly touches the skeleton palm of
him whose life was gentle as his thoughts
were pure. The once gay coquette reposes
by the side of cloistered spirit, whose sad
a nj he
could never know.
Strange and mournful thoughts are ours, as
we tread those narrow paths and glance at
the glistening tombs, or pause to read the
brief record Of the slumberers below.
There Alfred lies. We knew him in the
years ago, when the rainbows of childhood
were real to our view. He was our playmate,
though our elder, and often has he made us
better for his kindness and sacrifice of SELF
There an old man sleeps. We enumber him
among the first of our recollections. How
long he had lived, we thought. Will he ever
die? We have our answer now.
That mound marks the spot beneath which
all that was mortal of the blue-eyed Clara
was hidden from the world. Few summer
skies have dropped their tears upon the green
mantle that lies upon her cold bosom; few
zephyrs have waited her voice from Heaven,
telling the waiting clay she will no more re-
".
Dear Clara, thou darlingest darling of all; art
thou dead, indeed2 Are the lily hands we
held, and the rosy lips we touched with rap
ture, as the soil beneath our feet? Shall we
hear no more thy lute-like tones2 see never
again the smile that made the midnight
radiant to our eyes2 Does not our love still
link us, though the chain be heightened?
Talk oflove, there was the dross of passion
even in that we bore to Clara; but here all
is sanctifed and divine. Here the angel. |
spirit went up to God; here our destiny grew
dark, and purpose perished. Involuntarily
our knee is bended on this heap of earth in |
token of a celestial presence. The ashes that
must ever be moistened with our tears, are
gathered at our feet. The sainted author of
our being sleeps within this narrow place,
the bright being that compels US to believe |
in Heaven. Dearest, best of mothers, at thy |
grave we implore thee to visit us in spirit, |
that our heart may not all turn to adamant, |
and our soul to selfishness.
Imiss thee, my mother, thy image is still
The deepest impressed on my heart,
And the tablet faithful in death must be chill
Ere a line Of that image depart.
SO live again the dead; so pass before us |
the loved and worshipped of our being. In
deed, they are not dead; for to the heart they |
are subdued with dewy freshness, and fra |