death, when viewed in the right spirit, is found to be but the pleasant
transition stage to a more glorious and perfect life. From the days of
Plato to the present men have doubted and wondered as to the questions
of immortality and its nature. But none have approached the question in
the right spirit but what always the result has been the same.
Revelation and analogical reasoning both point to the same glorious
hope. What, then, shall we view it with terror? Ought we not to look
forward to it longingly as the final triumph of a well-lived life?
Though success and fortune may have been ours here, are they any thing
more or less than the accidental circumstances surrounding an ephemeral
existence? In the light of eternity does it make any great difference
whether that existence was passed surrounded with the comforts of wealth
or struggling for the necessities of life?
We are all equal in death; the king and the peasant, the rich and the
poor are all alike in this respect. Surely, that which is thus the
common lot of humanity must be for the common good. The universal dread
of death is, then, the effect of erroneous habits of thought. It is the
entrance to the harbor. We fear not the peaceful rest within. We can not
do better, then, than to cultivate cheerful thoughts in regard to age
and death. The one is the beautiful closing scene of earthly life, the
other the entrance to life immortal.
[Illustration]
_He who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all his friends._
Faithful friends! _It_ lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And ye say, "Abdallah's dead!"
Weeping at the feet and head.
I can see your falling tears,
I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this—
"_I_ am not the thing you kiss:
Cease your tears and let it lie;
It _was_ mine, it is not 'I.'"
Sweet friends! what the women lave,
For its last bed of the grave,
Is but a hut which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage, from which at last,
Like a hawk, my soul hath passed.
Love the inmate, not the room—
The wearer, not the garb—the plume
Of the falcon, not the bars
Which kept him from the splendid stars;
Loving friends! Be wise, and dry
Straightway every weeping eye:
What ye lift upon the bier
Is not worth a wistful tear.
'Tis an empty sea-shell—one
Out of which the pearl has gone;
The shell is broken—it lies there;
The pearl, the all, the soul is here.
'T is an earthen jar, whose lid
Allah sealed, the while it hid
The treasure of his treasury,
A mind that loved him; let it lie?
Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!
Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends;
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves you; lost, 't is true,
By such a light as shines for you;
But in the light ye can not see
Of unfulfilled felicity—
In enlarging paradise
Lives a life that never dies.
Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell
Where I am ye, too, shall dwell.
I am gone before your face,
A moment's time, a little space;
When ye come where I have stepped
Ye will wonder why ye wept;
Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain—
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death—for death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life center.
Be ye certain all seems love,
Viewed from Allah's throne above;
Be ye stout of heart, and come
Bravely onward to your home!
_La Allah illa Allah!_ yea!
Thou Love divine! Thou Love alway!
_He that died at Azan gave
This to those who made his grave._
[Illustration: THE END]