The Lexington intelligencer. [volume] (Lexington, Mo.) 1901-1949, 1902-12-13

spade.
Some men With swords may relp the
field,
And plant fresh laurels where they
kill;
But their strong nerves at last must
yield;
They tame but n another still;
Early or late,
They stoop 10 fate,
And must give up their marmuring
breath,
When they, pale captiyes, creep to
death.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty
deeds;
Upon Deaths purple altar now
See, where the victor-gictIm bleedS;
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb
Only the actions Of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.
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
the 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 ~voiceless
ocean Of ~eternity, where scepiered
monarchs mingle' their proud blood
with that Of slaves, and quecnly robes
brush the foul beggar' S rags, and fame
and glory, wealth, and pomp and
power are sunk beneath the waters Of
oblivion.
So runs the river Oh, and human
beings are but drops Of water borne
along by the resistless tides Of destiny.
The tragedies Of life, its struggles
and its pains, that come to all, the
crash Of falling Kingdoms, the collapse
Of worlds, 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 smoo;hes itself
again and runs its course, pouring the
ceaseless burden Of sorrow, grief, and
shame, and JOY, into the oceans
common and insatiate grave.
And yet there is no death; for from
the great seas placid bed, where
sleep the countless hosts, there still
ascend the sunlit clouds Of life, from
which in turn shall fall refreshing
rains to fiji again the eternal springs
Of youth. So like an enless chain
llfe's stream runs on, returning ever
toits parent source, ever returned unto
the common grave. But 10 the
process there is filtered out the dross,
impurities and grosness OF the earth
and every cycle brings a purer, holler,
sweeter lie. The dead, they are not
dead. They are the roSeate blush
upon the cheek Of morn, the silver Of
the moonbeams tender light. Their
garments are The rainbow's gorgeous
tlnts. They sleep in the fair lily's
spotless bed, dwell In the scented
petals Of the rose, whisper in muslc's
matchless melodies, and paint In every
y nulndu Oidlu thc uIcdm VI nUpe.
The dead, they still do live; lighting
the fires Of genius in the soul of man,
guiding the scuiptor's chlsel as 1t
earves from shapeless stone the forms
Of beauty, grace and loyellness, They
snrn the painters canvass to pictured
harmony Of color, light au6 life, and
Or ambibion's skies they trace the
enchanted visions Of success. They
speak to us in the soft notes Of love,
they fl our eyes with tears Of sym
pathy, their voice waros us Of the
dangers which beset. They smoothe
nom sorrow S troubled brow the lines
a. care. They are the soul, the con-
science Of the universe
Through countless centuries Of say