Now vacant is the chair,
At the table and the hearth,--
They miss him everywhere,
With the voice of joy and mirth.
They seek for him in vain,
In the chamber where he lay,
Through weary months of pain,
Wasting slowly, day by day.
He sweetly fell asleep,
As an infant sinks to rest,
When sunlight shadows creep.
Along the rosy west.
Gently as falls the rose,
Fanned by the zephyr's breath,
So his eyelids softly closed,
In the quiet sleep of death.
He has gone to his rest;
Oh! weep not for the dead,--
For the loved and the lost
Let no bitter tears be shed.
We trust that he has gone.
With the glorified to dwell,
And say, "God's will be done--
He doeth all things well."
The Pleasures of Memory.
Memory is a choice gift bestowed on man. It is a boundless source of
pleasure to most all persons, unless their lives have been fraught
with crimes of so daring a nature, that it makes the the heart revolt
at the very thought of them. It is pleasant at times to revert to the
scenes of by-gone days, and recall one beloved companion and another,
that have passed away, and to think of the many happy interviews we
have held with them.
It is necessary for the scholar to improve his memory, that he may
retain what he learns; that it may be of use to him at some future
time; that he may receive the reward he has anxiously sought for. It
is pleasant to the aged to recall the scenes that have long since
slumbered in oblivion, and awaken from the hallowed precincts of the
dead, thoughts of friends with whom they were wont to associate in
their early days, and retrace the sports of their childhood, when
health and activity nerved their limbs, and happiness filled their
bosoms.
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