The Lexington intelligencer. [volume] (Lexington, Mo.) 1901-1949, 1902-12-13
-IlFES TRAGEDIES, RIPPLES ON THE RIVERS FACE
"Ther Echoes Die Away the Rivers Surface Smoothes
Itself Again and Runs its Course

doubt and cruelty, the race has srug-
gled on through the twilight OF
thought, the dawn of intelligence,
into the sunlit wales Of liberty aud JOY
and peace. All Of the pain, the agony,
the strife, and all the struggles,
triumphs and achievements Of all the
dead who sleep are ours. The liberty
aud comforts we enjoy were purchased
by the lives Of myriads. On countless
b%attlefelds, mid tempests, and whirl-
winds Of fire, heroes have fallen like
autumn leaves before the winters
blast, Martyrs have poured out their
sacrifcial blood in every city Of the
Eastern world, aud funeral pyres have
cast their tragic light into the night
Of bigoJry, intolerance and hate. But
from it all has come the light OF
learning, the day OF Intelligence.
Science has measured the universe,
add Weighed and analysed the re-
hottest star that sheds its uncertain
light from the borders OF space.
Wealth has been accumulated by the
sci -denial Of cur a cestry and poured
into our laps, poets have dreamed
their dreams and sung their songs,
aud art has added beauties, graceful
lines aud classic forms.
The civilization Of the hour is but
the accumulated suffering and pain
and toll and self-denial OF all the
dead, who sleep today. The roll call
OF the dead, the silent answers of our
brothers who are gone, the echo Of
the voices that are hushed, bring to
our eyes the visions not OF shadowy
forms, but beings thrilled-inStinct
and full of life. Again We feel the
warm clasp Of their hands, we hear
their laughter turning the air to
joyous melody, their eyes beam on us
full OF light and love and sympathy.
We see them in the stormy fields
Of life, lighting its battles with coUr-
ageous hearts. We behold them IN
the quiet Of their homes, covering
with kisses the dimpled face Of baby
hood or clasping in their arms the
form Of sweetheart or wife. We
follow them through wild ambitions
fields struggling for wealth and place
and power, and catch a glimpse Of
their triumphant brows upon the
sunlit summit of success, or standing
disappointed, though not yet dismay-
ed, 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 work.
ing to the limits OF their strength,
honestly failing, honestly succeeding,
and as brave men with undaunted
chiyalric hearts accepting alike the
Laurel and the cross. We meet them
in the lodge room giving their time
and energies for man, unselfsbly
bearing the burdens and despalrs 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 ace OF
life. Again we see them stretched on
beds Of pain, where even our love
cannot forestall the inrOads Of disease,
nor kiss back to the pallid cheek the
rose Of health, nor turn aside the
cruel shafts Of death. Yet In it all
their lips give out no coward S cry.
We follow them to the grave, and
listen as the clods fall on their cofin
lids to the requiem Of sobS and tears.
We return to the silent homes where
aching hearts will ever feel the void
Of sorrow, to the lodge room where
we miss the familiar face, and listen
yainly for voices that are forever
stilleu.
We meet today TO pay the tribute
OF our love and tears. And yet why
should a single eye be dim? For
whether death is but the open portal
that leads unto the golden streets OF
paradise, or eternal, dreamless sleep,
or yet a new birth, in purer, better
forms Of life, there is no cause for
tears. HThe dead do not weep aud
in death there is nothing terrible.
To most men. when the last hour
comes, It's herald Is the angel form Of
peace, for modern philosophy and
thought have robbed the grave OF all
It's grizzly terrors. "The living, not
the dead, suffer palm And we
should look on the departed as mari