The Austin weekly statesman. (Austin, Tex.) 1883-1898, 1883-05-03
IngersOII Over the Grave Of John G.
Mills

"Again we are face to face with the
great mystery that shrowds this world.
We question, but there is no reply.
Out on the wide waste seas there
drifts no spar. Over the desert of
death the sphynX gazes forever but
never speaks. In the very May of
life another heart has ceased to beat.
Night has fallen upon noon, but he
lived, he loved, he was loved. Wife
and children pressed their kisses on
his lips. This is enough. The long
est life contains no more. This fills
the vase of Joy. He who lies here
clothed with the perfect peace of
death, was kind and loving husband
and good father, a generous neighbor,
an honest man, and these words build
a monument of glory about the hum
blest grave. He was always a child,
sincere and frank, as full of hope as
spring. He divided all time into to-
day and tomorrow. Tomorrow was
without a cloud, and of tomorrow he
borrowed sunshine for to-day. He
was my friend. He will remain so.
The living often become estranged.
"The dead are true. He was not a
christian. In the Eden of his hope
there did not crawl and coil the ser
pent of eternal pain. In many Ian
guages he sought the thoughts of
men, and for himself he solved the
problems of the world. He accepted
the philosophy of Aguste Comte. HUI
manity was his god, the human race
the supreme being. In that supreme
being he rested. He believed that
men are indebted for what we enjoy
to the labor, the self-denial, the hero
ism of the human race, and as we
have plucked the fruit of what others
have planted, we, in JhankfulneSs,
should plant for others yet to be.
With him Immortality was the eter-
nal consequences of his own good
acts. He believed that every good
thought, every disinterested deed, has
tens the harvest of universal good.
This is religion that enriches power
ty, that enables us to bear the sOr-
rows of the saddest life, that peoples
even solitude with the millions yet to
be; a religion born not of selfishnesS
and fear, but of love and hope; the
religion that digs wells to slake the
thirst of others; that gladly bears the
burdens of the unborn. In the pres
ence of death how belief and dogmas
wither and decay. How loving words
and deeds burst into blossom. Pluck
from the tree of any life these flowers
and there remains but the thorns of
bigotry and creed. All wish for hap
piness beyond this life. All hope to
meet again the loved and lost. In
every heart there grows this sacred
flower of eternal hope.
@o1. .c hnA
through all the ages has been whisper
ing to love. The miracle of thought
we cannot understand. The mystery
of death and hope we cannot compre-
bend. This chaos called the world
has never been explained. The golden
bridge of life from gloom energies and
on shadow rests. Beyond this we do
not know. Fate is speeches., destiny
is numb, and the secrets of the future
have never yet been told. We love.
we wait, we hope. The more we love
the more we fear. Upon the tenderest
heart the deepc st shadows fall. All
paths, whether filled with thorns or
flowers, ends here. Here success and
failure are the same. The rag of
wretchedness and the purple robe OF
power lose difference and distinction
in this democracy of death. Character
alone survives. Goodness alone lives.
Love alone is immortal.
But to all there comes time when
the feyered lips of life long for the
cool, delicious kiss of death. Tired of
the glare and dust of day, they hear
with joy the rustling garments of the
night. What can we say of death ?
What can we say of the dead? Where
they have gone reason can not go,
and from thence revelation has to
come. But let us believe that over
the cradle nature bends and smiles,
and lovingly above the dead in bene-
diction holds her outstretched hands"