Thy thoughts and feelings shall not die,
Nor leave thee when gray hairs are nigh
A melancholy slave;
But an old age serene and bright,
And lovely as a Lapland night,
Shall lead thee to thy grave.--Wordsworth.
Age is the outer shore against which dashes an eternity.
The mysterious ocean is either tempestuous or tranquil, just as we view
it. If we look hard down the cliff of death we are appalled with the
force of the waves; we are frightened by the din and shock of collision.
But if we gaze afar off we see no great disturbance. All is moving with
the true poetry of motion, in the fitness of God's plan, even as viewed
by one of His works. "The more we sink into the infirmities of age,"
says Jeremy Collier, "the nearer we are to immortal youth. All people
are young in the other world. That state is an eternal spring, ever
fresh and flourishing. Now, to pass from midnight into noon on the
sudden; to be decrepit one minute and all spirit and activity the next,
must be a desirable change. To call this dying is an abuse of language."
Death to the aged is natural, therefore as pleasant and easy as any
other natural office of the body. Indeed, it is far easier than the
operation by which we even get our teeth in youth. If we, then, are able
to forget that greatest shock of pain so quickly as we do, why shall we
dread a little sinking of the breath, and the unwilling battle of a body
that is tired and