The Columbia daily phoenix. [volume] (Columbia, S.C.) 1865-1865, 1865-07-26
COLUMBIA.
wednesday Morning, July 2e, 1865.
The Morals of Death.

.lanchelly commonplace. The sad and
hourly recurrence of our mournful e1pe-
rience of mortality, for six thousand years,
has left to language no new forms of express
stop. We can only renew the old phrases
mt each fresh experience of loss. We
. can only lament that all our lamentations
are made in vain; that we have lost with
out recovery: that no wisdom may guard
against loss; that no virtue. skill sr science
can bafflo the silent and certain progress
of the Inevitable Destroyer; and that we
all tend downwards. in certain progress,
along q stream that hurries US, more or
less rapidly, TO the gulf and precipiceI 1t
matters nothing to him who broods with
thought that the banks of this stream are
beautiful with fowere and rich in fruits;
that We may pluck even as we pass, and
fill our mouths with sweets, while our
eyes drink in the loveliest pictures on
either hand; that the flow of waters over
which We glide is deliciops-smooth,
though rapid; and that the birds sing
gaily in the trees overhead, as if to beguile
US on to the Fate that croYehes in waiting
for us below. If.young and thoughtless,
we enjoy these things; fruits, flowers,
smooth progress and joyous music; heed.
less to what they tend. or whittier the
shining waters hurry US. And in the
eagerness of passion and the gay buoyauo5
of youth, we cali this life, and we cav and
sing that life is happiness Alasl i. is for.
bidden to the wise and thoughtful-to
those seasoned by experisnce-to be so
needless. We know better We know
that life is not<happiness, nor meant to be
go. We know that death is the essential
necessity of life.
The sufferer, in q lerg experience of
pain and privation tries in vain to escape
from thought, while memory sits in weeds
beside him, and recalls for him, one by
one. the stars which have gone out in his
and fear, even while we drink, and smile,
aud sing. The morals of vicissitude force
themselves upon US as we glide along in
our urmerriest humor; and passing omoy,"
is the mournful inscription written upon
leaf and flower, and star and sky. 1t is
the sleepless chaunt of the murrnuri ing
waters, coursing headlong to that sea in
which they are TO be swallowed cup. 1t
forms the sad burden even Of the bird
song. that seems meant to beguile US as
we go. He sings. and gaily sings, even
While the wing of the hawk is spread, as o
pail. above him in the. sky. None of lis
can escape these lessons. They appeal to
all our senses; to our very fancies; to all
our instincts, which experience has con-
firmed, SO that the sense of pleasure carries
within it something of omen and pre-
sentiment. The melancholy chaunt is
ringing forever in our ears from thou.
sand voices. The gloomy inscription
CLEANS out before our eyes. since they FIRST
opened upon the light. The day and
night still come together. Death has no.
where left himself without a memorial,
which old and young equally may read.
The very song of life is chaunt bearing
testimonials Of death. Without death.
there would be no life. "Pa.sing a,nayr
is in the bells that ring at the bridal-in
the touching and mystic requiem which
we make at the burial. Begins With the
birth, lives through all the consciousness
nor is silenced at the grave. Yet how
reluctantly do we receive or gather this
moral from either occasion. Come when
lie may, where he may, under what as.
pect, Dsath is ever surprise. to our
thoughtless hearts-ue who has made
himeelf familiar for so many thousand