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Heaven, he sent for a sculptor and ordered his reached the point at which any sharp agitation tomb. “Begin your work forthwith," he said, would bring on the crisis. at parting; "there is no time to lose.' And Circumstances, which at another time would unless the artist had obeyed the admonition, excite no attention, are accepted for an omen death would have proved the quicker workman when health is failing. The order for the of the two.
requiem with Mozart, the dream with Fletcher, Mozart wrote his Requiem under the con- turned the current of their thoughts to the viction that the monument he was raising to grave. his genius, would, by the power of association, Foote, prior to his departure for the contiprove a universal monument to his remains. nent, stood contemplating the picture of a When life was fleeting very fast, he called for brother author, and exclaimed, his eyes full of the score, and musing over it, said, “Did I not tears, “ Poor Weston!” In the same dejected tell you truly that it was for myself that I tone he added, after a pause :
Soon others composed this death-chant!"
shall say, “Poor Foote !" and, to the surprise Another great artist, in a different depart of his friends, a few days proved the justice of ment, convinced that his hand was about to his prognostication. The expectation of the lose its cunning, chose a subject emblematical event had a share in producing it; for a slight of the coming event. His friends inquired the shock completes the destruction of prostrate nature of his next design, and Hogarth replied, energies. “The end of all things.” “In that case,” The case of Wolsey was singular. The rejoined one, there will be an end of the morning before he died he asked Cavendish the painter.”
What was uttered in jest was hour, and was answered “ Past eight." “ Eight answered in earnest, with a solemn look and a of the clock !” replied Wolsey, “that cannot heavy sigh: “There will,” he said ; "and the be ;-eight of the clock, nay, nay, cannot be sooner my work is done the better.” He eight of the clock, for by eight of the clock commenced next day, laboured upon it with shall you lose your master." The day he mis. unremitting diligence, and when he had given calculated, the bour came true. On the followit the last touch, seized his pallet, broke it in ing morning, as the clock struck eight, his pieces, and said : “I have finished.” The troubled spirit passed from life. Cavendish print was published in March, under the title and the bystanders thought he must have bad of “Finis ;" and in October the curious eyes a revelation of the time of his death; and from which saw the manners in the face, were closed the way in which the fact had taken possession in the dust. Our ancestors, who were prone of his mind, we suspect that he relied on astroto look in the air for causes which were to be logical prediction, which had the credit of a found upon the earth, attributed these intima- revelation in his own esteem. tions to various supernatural agencies.
Persons in health have died from the expecJohn Hunter has solved the mystery, if | tation of dying. It was once common for those mystery it can be called, in a single sentence. who perished by violence to summon their “We sometimes," he says, “feel within our destroyers to appear, within a stated time, selves that we shall not live; for the living before the tribunal of their God : and we have powers become weak, and the nerves commu
many perfectly attested instances in which, nicate the intelligence to the brain."
through fear and remorse, the perpetrators His own case has often been quoted among withered under the curse, and died. Pestilence the marvels of which he offered this rational does not kill with the rapidity of terror. explanation. He intimated, on leaving home, The profligate abbess of a convent, the that if a discussion which awaited him at the Princess Gouzaga of Cleves, and Guize, the prohospital took an angry turn, it would prove fligate Archbishop of Rheims, took it into their his death. A colleague gave him the lie; the heads, for a jest, to visit one of the puns by coarse word verified the prophecy, and he night, and exhort her as a person who was expired almost immediately in an adjoining visibly dying. While in the performance of room. There was everything to lament in the their heartless scheme they whispered to each circumstance, but nothing at which to wonder, other, “She is just departing,” she departed in except that any individual could show such earnest. Her vigour, instead of detecting the disrespect to the great genius, a single year of trick, sank beneath the alarm; and the profane whose existence was worth the united lives of pair discovered, in the midst of their sport, his opponents.
Hunter, in uttering the pre- that they were making merry with a corpse. diction, had only to take counsel in his own
Wakley. experience, without the intervention of invisible DEATH-Preparations for. spirits. He had long laboured under a disease No one can fear death less than I do, neither of the heart, and he felt the disorder had am I much attached to life ; but I havo never
known the feeling of an anxious longing for DEATH-Resignation in. dath; and although it be a nobler one than that When I, beneath the cold red earth, am sleeping, of an absolute weariness of existence, it is never
Life's fever o'er, theless blamable. Life must first, for as long Will there for me be any bright eye weeping a period as Providence wills it, be enjoyed, or
That I'm no more? suffered ; in one word, gone through, and that Will there be any heart still memory keeping with a full submission, without murmuring,
Of heretofore ? lamenting, or repining. There is one important law of nature which we should never lose When the great winds, through leafless forests sight of: I mean that of the ripening for rushing, death. Death is not a break in existence; it
Like full hearts break-is but an intermediate circumstance, a transi. When the swollen streams, o'er crag and gully tion from one form of our finite existence to rushing, another. The moment of maturity for death
Sad music make, cannot be decided by any human wisdom or Will there be one, whose heart Despair is in ward feeling, and to attempt to do so would crushing, be nothing better than the vain rashness of
Mourn for my sake ? buman pride. That decision can only be made by Him who can at once look back through When the bright sun upon that spot is shining, our whole course; and both reason and duty
With purest ray, require that we should leave the hour to Him, And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms and never rebel against His decrees by a single
twining, impatient wish. The first and most important will there be one still on that spot repining
Burst through that clay, thing is, to learn to master ourselves, and to throw ourselves with peaceful confidence on
Lost hopes all day? Hinn who never changes, looking on every situation, whether pleasant or otherwise, as a
When no star twinkles with its eye of glory
On that low mound source from which our interior existence and individual character may draw increasing
And wintry storms have, o'er its ruins hoary,
Its loneness crown'd, strength; and hence springs that entire submission which few attain to, although all fancy Will there be one then, versed in Misery's story, they feel it.
Pacing it round!
It may be so; but this is selfish sorrow
To ask such meed,
A weakness and a wickedness to borrow Unheard, unseen, it steals with silent pace
From hearts which bleed, Through night's dark gloom.—Perhaps as here The wailings of to-day for what to-morrow
Shall never need. I sit, And rudely carol these incondite lays, Soon shall the hand be check'd, and dumb Lay me, then, gently in my narrow dwelling,
Thou gentle heart; the mouth
And though thy bosom should with grief be That lisps the fault'ring strain.-0! may it ne'er
swelling, Intrude unwelcome on an ill-spent hour;
Let no tear start.
It were in vain : for Time has long been knelling,
“Sad one, depart!" Motherwell.
He that always waits upon God, is ready I had a little blossom, its nursing-root was whensoever He calls. Neglect not to set your
dead, accounts even: he is a happy man who so
And in my breast I hid it, when its angel lives, as that death at all times may find him
mother fled; at leisure to die.
But at every blast I shudder'd, and I trembled
day and night, | DEATH-Repose of.
Lest some unseen destroyer my only bud
should blight. "Tis less than to be born: a lasting sleep : A quiet resting from all jealousy :
Two years of sleepless care, yet of high and A thing we all pursue. I know besides
sacred joy, It is bat giving over of a gaine that must be Brought forth in rudly health, my lovely, lost.
Beaumont and Fletcher. blooming boy;
in his eye,
With the curls around his head, and the lustre DEATH-of a Soldier.
Death's a formal thing And the music on his lip, like a song-bird of In jails, on scaffolds, or on beds of down; the sky.
But in the field,--there he tbrows off his shroud,
And, full of mettle as a courser, starts, How still! My God! Is there no voice? The comrade, not the tyrant, of the brave !
Haynes. And bas it come to this? The white lip quivereth not to my impassion'd DEATH-a change to Eternal Spring. kiss !
The more we sink into the infirmities of 'Tis a coldness like the grave !-my idol! Can age, the nearer we are to immortal youth. All it be ?
people are young in the other world. That O Father, from Thy throne above, in mercy state is an eternal spring, ever fresh and look on me!
flourishing. Now, to pass from midnight into
noon on the sudden; to be decrepit one minute They told me bow the fever raged, and in his and all spirit and activity the next, must be a broken dream,
desirable change. To call this dying is an How he call'd upon the absent, with shrill and abuse of language.
Jeremy Collier. frantic scream ; How he set his teeth on cup and spoon, with DEATH-Struggles with.
hated med'cine fraught : But at his father's treasured name would take
O God! it is a fearful thing the bitterest draught.
To see the human soul take wing
I've seen it rushing forth in blood,
I've seen it on the breaking ocean young mother slept,
Strive with a swoln convulsive motion. Byron. The fragrant vines she used to train, around ber feet had crept ;
DEATH-without Terrors. But I cut their roots away, that the bud she loved the best,
Death has no terrors for me; it is an event Might spread its wither'd petals upon her I always look to with cheerfulness, if not with pulseless breast.
pleasure: and be assured, the subject is more
grateful to me than any other. There is a spot Why should I cloud my brow ?-or yield to near the village of Dauphiny where I should dark despair?
like to be buried. Suffer no pomp to be used All, all men are my brethren, and this fruitful at my funeral, no monument to mark the spot earth is fair ;
where I am laid; but put me quietly in the For I know when Heav'n hath wounded, and earth, place a sundial over my grave, and let probed the bleeding breast,
me be forgotten.
John Howard. Its richest healing balm is, in making others blest.
It is not strange that that early love of the
heart should come back, as it so often does, A stricken, not a mournful man, I sigh, but
when the dim eye is brightening with its last not repine ;
light. It is not strange that the freshest For my heart is in that land of love, with those fountains the heart has ever known in its I hope to join.
wastes should bubble up anew when the life
blood is growing stagnant. It is not strange DEATH-the Revealer.
that a bright memory should come to a dying The body being only the covering of the old man, as tho sunshine breaks across the soul, at its dissolution we shall discover the hills at the close of a stormy day; nor that in secrets of nature- the darkness shall be dis- the light of that ray, the very clouds that pelled, and our souls irradiated with light and made the day dark should grow gloriously glory : a glory without a shadow, a glory that beautiful.
Hauthorn. shall surround us; and from whence we shall look down, and see day and night beneath us; Who can describe the pleasure and delight, and as now we cannot lift up our eyes towards the peace of mind and soft tranquillity, which the sun without dazzling, wbat shall we do the sickly boy felt in the balmy air, and when we behold the divine light in its illus- among the green hills and rich woods, of an trious original ?
Seneca, / inland village! Who can tell how scenes of
peace and quietude sink into the minds of DEATH–Valley of.
and never wished for change; men, to whom | DEATH-Willingness in.
Of the great number to whom it has been stone that formed the narrow boundaries of my painful professional duty to have admintheir daily walks, -even they, with the hand istered in the last hour of their lives, I have
sometimes felt surprised that so few have of death upon them, have been known to years at last for one short glimpse of Nature's appeared reluctant to go to the undiscovered face; and, carried far from the scenes of their country from whose bourne no traveller
returns!” Many, we may easily suppose, have old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being, and, crawl manifested this willingness to die from an ing forth from day to day to some green sunny
impatience of suffering, or from that passive
indifference which is sometimes the result of spot, have had such memories wakened
up within them by the mere sight of sky, and hill, debility and bodily exhaustion. But I have
seen those who have arrived at a fearless conand plain, and glistening water, that a fore-templation of the future, from faith in the taste of heaven itself has soothed their quick doctrine which our religion teaches. Such men decline, and they have sunk into their tombs
were not only calm and supported, but cheer. as peacefully as the sun whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber window but ful, in the hour of death; and I never quitted a few hours before-faded from their dim and such a sick chamber without a hope that my
last end might be like theirs. feeble sight! The memories which peaceful
Sir Henry Halford. I country scenes call up are not of this world,
or of its thoughts or hopes; their gentle DEATH-of the Young. influence may teach us to weave fresh garlands Ephemera die all at sunset, and no insect of for the graves of those we loved, may purify this class has ever sported in the beams of the our thoughts, and bear down before it old morning sun. Happier are ye, little human enmity and hatred; but beneath all this, ephemera ! Ye played only in the ascending there lingers in the least reflective mind a beams, and in the early dawn, and in the vague and half-formed consciousness of having eastern light; ye drank only of the prelibaheld such feelings long before in some remote tions of life ; hovered for a little space over a and distant time, which calls up solemn world of freshness and of blossoms; and fell thoughts of distant times to come, and bends asleep in innocenco before yet the morning down pride and worldliness beneath it.
dew was exhaled !
Richter. Dickens. : DEATH-Tranquillity of.
Oh! it is hard to take to heart the lesson A death-like sleep,
that such deaths will teach; but let no man A gentle wafting to immortal life. Milton. reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and
is a mighty, universal truth. When Death
strikes down the innocent and youug, for No earthly clinging
every fragile form from which he lets the No lingering gaze No strife at parting
panting spirit free, a hundred virtues rise, in No sore amaze;
shapes of Mercy, Charity, and Love, to walk
the world, and bless it. Of every tear that But sweetly, gently,
sorrowing mortals shed on such green graves, He pass'd away!
some good is born, some gentler nature comes. From the world's dim twilight
In the destroyer's steps there spring up bright To endless day.
creations that defy his power, and his dark DEATH-unfolds a Truth.
path becomes a way of light to heaven.
Dickens. Death only this mysterious truth unfolds, The mighty soul how small a body holds. She was dead. There, upon her little bed,
Dryden. she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no DEATH-like the Twilight.
marvel now. The darkness of death is like the evening She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and twilight, it makes all objects appear more calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look lovely to the dying.
Richter. upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the
hand of God, and waiting for the breath of DEATH-of the Young. life; not one who had lived and suffered Paul had never risen from his little bed. death.
He lay there, listening to the noises in the Her couch was dressed with here and there street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how some winter berries and green leaves, gathered the time went, but watching it and watching in a spot she had been used to favour. everything about him with observing eyes. “When I die, put near me something that When the sunbeams struck into his room has loved the light, and had the sky above it through the rustling blinds, and quivered on always."
the opposite wall like golden water, he knew She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble that evening was coming on, and that the sky Nell, was dead. Her little bird-a poor slight was red and beautiful. As the reflection died thing the pressure of a finger would have away, and a gloom went creeping up the wall, crushed - was stirring nimbly in its cage ; he watched it deepen, deepen, deepen into and the strong heart of its child-inistress was night. Then he thought how the long streets mute and motionless for ever.
were dotted with lamps, and how the peaceful Where were the traces of her early cares, stars were shining overhead. His fancy had her sufferings, and fatigues! All gone. Sor- a strange tendency to wander to the river, row was dead indeed in her, but peace and which he knew was flowing through the great perfect happiness were born; imaged in her city; and now he thought how black it was, tranquil beauty and profound repose.
and how deep it would look, reflecting the And still her former self lay there, unal- host of stars--and more than all, how steadily tered in this change. Yes. The old fireside it rolled away to meet the sea. had smiled upon that same sweet face; it had As it grew later in the night, and footsteps passed, like a dream, through haunts of misery in the street became so rare that he could and care; at the door of the poor schoolmaster hear them coming, count them as they passed, on the summer evening, before the furnace and lose them in the hollow distance, he would fire upon the cold wet night, at the still bed- lie and watch the many-coloured rings about side of the dying boy, there had been the the candle, and wait patiently for day. His same mild lovely look. So shall we know the only trouble was, the swift and rapid river. angels in their majesty, after death.
He felt forced, sometimes, to try to stop it
to stem it with his childish hands-or choke She was dead, and past all help, or need of its way with sand—and when he saw it coming it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill
on, resistless, he cried out! But a word from with life, even while her own was waning him to himself; and leaning his poor head
Florence, who was always at his side, restored fast-the garden she had tended-the eyes she had gladdened-the noiseless haunts of upon her breast, he told Floy of his dream,
and smiled. many a thoughtful hour—the paths she had trodden as it were but yesterday—could know for the sun; and when its cheerful light began
When day began to dawn again, he watched her never more. It is not on earth that Heaven's justice
to sparkle in the room, he pictured to himself ends. Think what earth is, compared with -pictured ! he saw—the high church-towers the world to which her young spirit has winged rising up into the morning sky, the town reits early flight; and say, if one deliberate wish
viving, waking, starting into life once more, expressed in solemn terms above this bed the river glistening as it rolled (but rolling could call her back to life, which of us would dew. Familiar sounds and cries came by
fast as ever), and the country bright with utter it!
degrees into the street below; the servants in
the house were roused and busy ; faces looked When the dusk of evening had come on, in at the door, and voices asked his attendants and not a sound disturbed the sacred stillness softly how he was. Paul always answered for of the place—when the bright moon poured himself, “ I am better. I am a great deal in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, better, thank you! Tell papa so !" wall, and arch, and most of all (it seemed to By little and little, he got tired of the bustle them) upon her quiet grave-in that calm of the day, the noise of carriages and carts, time, when all outward thiugs and inward and people passing and re-passing; and would thoughts teem with assurances of immortality, fall asleep, or be troubled with a restless and and worldly hopes and fears are humbled in uneasy sense again—the child could hardly the dust before them-then, with tranquil tell whether this were in his sleeping or his and submissive hearts they turned away, and waking moments — of that rushing river. left the child with God,
Dickens. “Why, will it never stop, Floy?" he would