Middletown transcript., 1896-01-25
tribute to Mr.. Clayton.

'. & va Rotuiody HiSut, JANUARY Iituss a. Liz
hour of low Twelve. there came flashing
over the wires from Baltimore the start
ling message, Henry Clayton died thi
evening" For the third time within
twelve month, the grim messenger of death
has come knocking at our doors and sum.
moned away those we loved and whose
m memories We will ever cherish.
First, Rey and Bro. Nicholas NJ. Browne
was suddenly called away from the duties
of his sacred Office; next, Past Master ].
Thomas Budd. after lingering illness,
peacefully and quietly as the shadows fall
at evening tide, passed out into the great
eternit ity, and now we are called to mourn
the loss of Brother Past Master Henry
Clay ton, who has been stricken down by the
hand of that inexo rable enemy to whom
allmust yield sooner or later,
;'Envious Death with his Gavel has felled hima
Plumb-line and Trowel are strewn DER the
land"
These oft repeated dispensations but serve
to remind us that we too are mortal, and
that in the midst of life we are in death,
and the wisest cannot know what a DAY
may bring forth. How soon death for us
will be reality none can tell.
"Our lives like rivers are passing free
To that unfathomed boundless sea, the silent
| grave:
For, from the perennial springs of birth
comes the river of life, flowing through
childhood's sunny perfumed plains, and
every wave that kisses verdant banks gives
forth the murmur and laugh of joy. Past
the enchanted fields of youth, romance and
poetry, where golden sunbeams paint life's
morning skies with rainbow tints of hope,
leaping the precipice of middle life, it
surges, beats and roars against the jagged
rocks of opposition and defeat; then creeps
with sluggish pace between the barren,
sterile, ghostly fields of age into the voice
less ocean of eternity, where sceptred mon-
archs mingle their proud blood with that |
of slaves, and queenly robes brush the foul |
beggars rags, and fame and glory. wealth |
and pomp and power are sunk beneath |
the waters Of oblivion. So runs the river |
on, and human beings are but drops of |
water born along by the resistless tides of |
destiny.
All the tradegies of life, its struggles
and its pains, that come to all these are
but ripples on the rivers face that spend
their harmless force against the unrespon-
siYe shores. Their echoes die away, the
rivers surface snooths itself again and
runs its course. pouring the ceaseless bur-
den of sorrow, grief and joy into the oceans
common and insatiate grave.
The roll call of the dead. the silent answers
of our brothers who are gone, the echoes
of the voices that are hushed, bring to our
eyes visions, not of shadowy forms, but be-
ings instinct and full of life.
Again We feel the warm clasp of their
hands, we hear their laughter, turning the
air to joyous melody, the ir eyes beam on us
still, full of light, and love and sympathy.
We see them in the stormy fields of life,
fghing its battles with courageous hearts, |.
catch glimpse of their triumphant brows
upon the summit of success, or standing
disappointed, though not yet dismayed. but
half way up the mountains rugged side.
Yet in it all We see the work of honest
men. honestly striving as the light is given,
honestly working to the limits of their
strength, honestly failing, honestly sue
ceeding, and as brave brothers, with un-
daunted hearts, accepting alike the laurel
and the cross.
We meet them in the lodge-room, giving
their time and energies for man unselfishly
bearing the burdens and despairs of
brothers, and generously reaching out the
hand of sympathy to those who, worn out |
by the heat and burden of the day, have
fallen in the race of life.
We follow them to the grave, and listen {
as the clods fall Oh their coffin ills TO the
requiem of sobs and tears
We return to the silent homes, where :
aching hearts will ever feel the void of sor-
row; to the lodge-room. where we miss the
familiar face, and listen vainly for the I
voice forever stilled.
And yet, why should q single eye be
1immed For, whether death is but the l
open portal that leads unto the golden a
streets of Paradise, or eternal dreamless
''eep or yet new birth in better, purer :
'orms of life, there is 10 cause for tears,
he dead do not weep, and in death there
s nothing terrible. To the Christian when
The last hour comes. its herald is the angel
orm of peace. for He who is the resurrec-
ion and the life has robbed the grave of 6
III its terrors. The living not the dead b
uffer pain, and we should look on the de-
parted as a mariner whose bark has landed r
n genial port.
Let US, then, emulate the example of our
departed brother, remember his virtues,
om memorate the good which he has done q
md in. the grave of charity and forgetful-
less bury his mistakes and faults.
So shall we live that, as we near the end,
We may look with satisfaction OH the past, Il
nd turn our eyes of confidence and hope IL
oward the unexplored shore where BROTH
rly hands are stretched across the chasm, II
o give again the fraternal grip OF. welcome =
nd of love-
"There are no dead; the leaves may fall,
The flowers may fade and pass away, A
They only wait through wintry hours.
The coming May:
o the family of our deceased brother, we v
ffer the tribute of our prayers. our sympa- r
by and our tears. commencing them to
he protection and guidance of Him who O
} "a present help in time of trouble" II
And it is ordered that COPY of this
be sent to the family of our de- g.
eparted brother; that this paper, together
nth an account of all the ceremonies ,
D the funeral obsequies, be spread upon
lie records of the Lodge, on memorial
age to be set apart and dedicated to the
lemory of our brother. u
ALFRED G. Cox,