The copper era., 1905-11-23
Governor Taylor at the Tomb of Isham
 C. Harris.

Harris, in the name of the State which he served so long and so well. If all the noble deeds he has done for his country and for his fellow man were flowers, I could gather a mil lion roses from the hearts of Ten nesseans tonight. Whatever else may be said of himShe was an honest man. His heart was the temple of truth, and his lips were it's oracles. He loved his native land, and loyalty to duty was his creed. He lived long and stormy life; he died a hero.
 The summons came to him in the triumphant hour of the state, when the centennial bells were ringing out the old century and ringing in the new. In the glorious noontide of Tennessee's joyful jubilee, when the trumpets of peace were pouring out the soul of music on the summer air, he heard the solemn call of another trumpet, which drowned all the melodies of this world. He saw the shadow of an invisible wing sweep across his pillow, a pallor came over his face, his heart forgot to beat, there was only gasp, sigh, whls- per 'sI am tired,'' and tired eyellds' were drawn like purple curtains over tired eyes: tired lips were closed for ever, tired hands were folded on motionless breast.
 The mystery of life was yelled in the myste: of death. What is life? What is death? Today we hear bird singing in the treetop; they tell us that is life. Tomorrow the bird lies cold and stiff at the root of the tree. It will sing its song no more. They tell us that is death. A babe is born into the world. It opens its eyes to the light of day and smiles in the face of it's loving mother. And they tell US that is life. The child wanders from the cradle into the sweet fairyland of youth, and dreams among it's flowers. But soon youth wakes into manhood, and his soul is firewith ambition. He rushes into the struggle of real life and wins his way from the log cabin to the guber- material chair. The hghtnings be- gin to leap from the gathering clouds of war, the thunders begin to fall around him, but .he stands like lion at his post, and when the dreadful shock at Shiloh comes, where the flower of Tennessee are rushing to glory and the grave, through the rifted smoke I see him kneeling on, the bloody field, with the peerless Albert Sidney Johnson dying in his arms.
 At last his flag goes down in blood and tears; he is exiled from his country. But the clouds soon clear away and he returns in triumph, to be clothed by the people with great CT power than ever before, and to sit like an uncrowned king in the high est council of the nation until his raven locks turn white as snow.
 But the scene shifts again, and, as we are called from our revelry to stand around the coffin of our match less Senator, there are tearstains on the cheeks of merriment, and mourn ing muffles mirth. They tell us that is death. The song of the bird is the soul of melody, and the laughter of the child is the melody of the soul.
 The joys of youth are the blossoms of hope; manhood gathers the golden fruits. But death robs the bird of its song, and steals laughter from the lips of childhood. Death plucks the blossom of youth, and turns the golden fruits of manhood to ashes on the lips of age.
 Poor thing! is there no brighter cline, where thy sweet spirit shall sing forever in the tree of life? Poor child! is there no better world where thy soul shall wake and smile ir~the- faee. of -God2 Poor old, tired man, is it all of life to live? Is it all of death to die? Is there not heaven where thy tottering age shall find immortal life shall glorify thy face? It must be so! it must be so!
 "A solemn murmur in the soul, tells of a
 world to Be,
 As travellers hear the pillows roll, before they
 reach the sea-"
 There must be God. We look up through the telescope into the blue infinite and catch glimpses of his glory. We see millions of suns, flaming like archangels on the frontier of stellar space. And still beyond we see in ten thousand fields of light crowns and shields and spiral wreathes of stars, islands and conti- nents of suns floating on boundless opal seas. And are there no worlds like ours, wheeling around the suns? Are there no eyes but ours to see those floods of light? Are there no sails on those far-away summer seas? No wings to cleave those crystal airs?
 Surely there cannot be a universe of stars without a universe of worlds, and reason teaches us that there cannot be universe of worlds deso- late of life.
 We turn from the telescope and look down through the microscope, and it reveals in a single drop of