It was morning. Rosy fingered
Aurora lifted the gorgeous curtains of the east, and
unlocked the golden gates of light, ushering in the
young king of day. The glad earth, bathed with
the dews of night, and redolent with flowers, lay
blushing and rejoicing beneath his radiant beams,
and blooming nature strode forth, clad in his most
beautiful garments, while the murmurs of the waterfall,
the sigh of the breeze, the carol of the birds, and
the hum of busy life all fell upon the
ear, making enchanting melody music that
touched the soul.
Cradled in its downy bed, beneath
a window closely curtained, to obstruct the light,
lay a sleeping infant, whose dawn of life had just
begun. Its very helplessness demanded our love
and pity. It smiled and wept, but knew not why;
but succeeding days added strength and vigor to his
frame, and he came forth in all the sportiveness and
beauty of infant loveliness.
It was noon; the sun had gained his
zenith in the heavens, and shed down his scorching
rays upon the parched earth, that lay drooping beneath
his noon-day beams. Scarce a leaf was seen to
move, the birds sat silent with folded wing, in the
leafy branches, the flowers hung fainting upon their
stems, and nature shrank from the oppressive heat.
The cradled infant had passed from
infancy to childhood, from childhood to youth, from
youth to manhood, through the various changes that
mark each successive period, and he now stood in the
meridian of life,
“With all his blushing honors thick
upon him.”
His brow was marked by care and anxiety,
and he seemed ambitious to win a name. “Fear
first assailed the child, and he trembled and screamed;
but at a frown, with youth came love, torturing the
hapless bosom, where fierce flames of rage, resentment,
jealousy contend. Disturbed ambition presented
next, to bid him grasp the moon and waste his days
in angry sighs, add deep rivalry for shadows, till
to conclude the wretched catalogue, appears pale avarice,
straining delusive counters to his breast, e’en
in the hour of death.” Such are human passions.
It was evening; the curtains of the
west were tinged with the varied dyes of sunset, and
nature seemed revived by the cool, fresh evening breeze,
and smiled complacently beneath the sun’s last
ray. The full orbed moon arose in the east, and
the crystal streams reflected myriads of diamonds
beneath her silver beams, and the stars, those golden
lamps of night, shone bright in the blue chambers of
the sky. An aged man was leaning on his staff,
the vigor of life had departed, his locks were thin
and scattered, his palsied limbs would scarce perform
their office. His eye was dim no longer
beaming with intelligence, and he muttered to himself,
as he groped his way along, worn out with the cares,
sorrows and perplexities of a busy life, deep furrows
were upon his cheeks, and his whole appearance bespoke
a weary, way-worn child of earth. He took his
solitary way, down a retired path, thickly shaded
with fir, holly and yew, through whose thick foliage
the struggling moonbeam scarce could penetrate, and
the air was filled with humid vapors, gloomy silence
as of the tomb reigned around, but exhausted nature
sank, and the aged man pillowed his head upon the
bosom of earth, and closed his weary eyes to rest,
for he was a homeless wanderer.
It was deep, solemn midnight; a dense
cloud had obscured the sky, and hid the refulgent
light of the moon; the wind howled in fitful murmurs,
the thunder rolled in the distance, lightnings glared,
and nature wrapped herself in the sable shroud of
midnight, and seemed shrieking a death-wail in her
many voices.
Beside the gray haired man stood a
pale visitant from the spirit land, to summons him
away; he laid his icy hand upon his waning pulse, and
chilled the current of his struggling breath.
No friend was nigh, but his spirit passed gently away,
leaving his countenance placid and serene in death.
Such is the end of human life.
A little mound of heaped up earth marks the spot,
where the weary pilgrim is at rest. All who tread
in the path way of life, must lie down too, “with
the pale nations of the dead,” mingle with common
dust, and become the sport of the winds.