The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1879-02-12

Where tempests never rage
And suns iise to set no more.
1t has been written that the journey of
day is the picture of human life. 1t may be
SO. The morning of hope, meridian of
exultstion and an evening of rest. Such
would be fancy sketch The realities of
life controvert it, for, as Longfellow sings,
Life is real, life is earnest''-and we add
with the great mass of humanity that life is
3 battle field.
Under providence childhood is ever beau
tiful because it is period OF innocence, and
nothing Is more sacred than its recollections.
The sweet refrains of mother attuned to
the hottest affection; the gentle caress of
sister aud the generous support of brother
with the advice of father. are among the
hottest recollectIons vouchsafed to man
These things come in the morning OF life,
and they linger forever in The memory. They
are blended with the orchard, the meadow.
the deep tangled wild wood and ev-
cry loved spot that our infancy
knew. Then time was decked in holiday
attire and did not appear in after i:e-:hs
grave digger OF hopes and affections. How
lovingly we cherish such recollections. They
are pictures grander than Raphael ever
painted. and at three score years they hang
in memorys hall free from the dust and
pictures, and we cherish them with more
than pagan devotion. Later in life comes
the school-room, with its Juvenile attach
ments and ambitions when we
seek 70 solve the simplest problems
OF an education to tit Us for the battle of
life, and here begin lies poems. Fancy
pIumes itself, and Imagination wings US to
the SUBMITS of the delectsble mountains as
the ultimatum of our ambition. Later in
life comes the wooing, and the wedding,
and the blending of lives and of hopes--a
new Departure new home-.he first
born, and all the rapture of fatherhood,
and motherhood, and nature puts
on a new attire. Cherub lips aud
cherub arms awaken new ambitions
new hopes and beatitudes never before
dreamed Of come down like mamma. The
birds change their notes, and the liquid lips
of the rivu!ets are attuned to hymnology
sweeter than the music of the spheres. In
the ecstacy of the hour daisy-decked graves
are forgotten, and Heaven bends lovingly
above thu cradle, and affections coma, bear
ing more precious gifts than frankincense
and myrrh. Again the picture changes
and death becomes the unwelcome
guest of the home, where but yesterday all
was Joy, and the first born lies cold and stiff
in its shroud. Tears come like the sobbings
of the rains, and the wailings OF the heart
are like the North winds. 1t is over. There
is a little monnd in the cemetery, climbing
roses and tombstone, and the bereaved are
left alone with their sorrows. Others are
born and others die, until death in the re-
ientlessness OF its pursuit takes the wife or the
husband. Then desolation reigns supreme
in the heart of the remaining pfl
grim who, wrapt in the weeds
of mourning, sighs like the winds
alone, alone, forever alone. Consultations
coma, and surviving children, like the ivy,
wind the tendrils OF their affections around
the heart, and bid the father or the mother
as the case may be-to live. But death claims
all seasons for its own, is too austere to
heed the language of the heart, and yields its
scythe and spade regardless OF the SORROWS
NuiCu nc pfOuultS AAC ocoS shS & oy Al1iAo thdt
deck the brow of the aged parent, the dim
med eye, the faltering step, the palsied arm
and gloriss to know that another victim is
soon to be claimed. And thus, from
the cradle up to the summit of
life, as down its declIvities
it is sunshine and shadow, birth and death,
hopes and disappointments, coffias and
graves, until, from every corridor of mem
| ory, there comes dirge. On the declIvity
| of life, with few friends around u.s. we
pause for a moment. Sixty years have
| rolled away. The autumn of life has come,
and We have seen our friends around us fall
| like leaves in wintry weather. AT sixty the
sun OF our lives is touching the horizon.
God bs thanked at that time for
gentle words for sweet caresses,
for true friends, though We know
that the river Of death is near. yet in Gods
providence it is obscured from our vision,
and at most but few years can elapse until
we plunge into its dark waters. At three
score years let us bsgin to fold the arms Of
| the soul and get ready for the change that
awaits u.s. for at best In ten years more we
reach the maximum of life's period; and if
days are added they are fraught with an
guisa. Notwithstanding al this, |. y iossi