Some by long disease confin'd,
Have slowly wasted day by day;
Health, strength and beauty--all declin'd,
And Youth's bright visions pass'd away.
But wander on; the sculptured stone
In thunder tones is speaking here;
The name--the age--it loudly tells,
To eye and heart, if not the ear.
They sleep when winter's winds are loud,
And snow and sleet come drifting by;
And when light sails the rosy cloud,
And Spring's sweet gales around them sigh.
They sleep--ah, yes--that dreamless sleep,
That never shall know waking more;
They've cross'd the icy steam of death,
And pass'd unto the viewless shore.
Conscience.
Conscience, and what is conscience? Is it not that silent but powerful
monitor within that weighs our every motive? is it not the small still
voice that whispers its approval when we have acted right, but bursts
like the crashing thunder peal or the terrific earthquake, when we
have acted wrong? She stands with extended finger a silent though
faithful friend, and points us onward in the plain path of duty. We
have only to follow her dictates, and all will be well. But many gaudy
flowers are blooming here and there beside the path, to tempt the
thoughtless one to step aside and pluck; but though they are beautiful
to the eye, and their fragrance borne to us by the breeze, seems to
woo us temptingly, yet, concealed within their leaves is a deadly
scorpion or poisonous asp, whose sting is instant death, or some,
perhaps, contain a more slow and sluggish poison, that creeps into the
mind, and instilling its venom by slow degrees, corrupts the whole.
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