Death of Mr. Oliver D. Cooke

Death's shafts are ever busy. The fair hauntsWhere least we dread him, and where most the soulDoth lull itself to fond securityReveal his ministry; and were not manBlind to the future, he might see the skyEven in the glory of its cloudless primeDark with that arrow-flight.They deemed it so,Who marked thee like a stately column fall,And in the twinkling of an eye yield backThy breath to Him who gave it. Yes,—they felt,Who saw thy vigorous footstep strangely chainedUpon the turf it traversed, and the cheekFlushed high with health, to mortal paleness turn'd,How awful such a rush from time must be.Thy brow was calm, yet deep within thy breastWere ranklings of a recent grief for herThe idol of thy tenderness, with whomLife had been one long scene of changeless love.Yea, thou didst watch the winged messengerIn sleepless agony, that bore her hence,—And when the eye did darken, from whose beamsThine own had drank from youth its dearest joy,Upraised thine hands and gave her back to God,Bowing thy spirit to His righteous will.The bleeding of thy heart-strings was not staunched,Nor scarce the tear-gush dried, ere Death's dire frostCongeal'd the fount of life.

Thy toil had beenIn that brief interval, to bear fresh plantsFrom the sweet garden which she loved to tend,And bid them on her burial-pillow bloom.But ere the young rose, or the willow-treeHad taken their simplest rooting, thou wert laidLow by her side. It was a pleasant placeMethought to rest,—earth’s weary labor done,Fanned by the waving of those drooping boughs,And in her company, whom thou didst chooseFrom all the world, to travel by thy side,Confidingly,—by deep affection cheer'd,And in thy faith a sharer.From the hauntsOf living men thine image may not fleetNoteless away. They will remember thee,By many a word of witness for the truth,And many a deed of bounty. In the sphereOf those sublimer charities that girdThe mind—the soul—thine was the ready hand:And for the hasting of that day of peaceWhich sheathes the sword, thine was the earnest prayer.In thine own house and in the church of GodThere will be weeping for thee. Thou no moreAround thine altar, shalt delight to seeThy children, and thy children's children comeTo take thy patriarch blessing,—and no moreBring duly to yon consecrated courtsThy Sabbath offering. Thou hast gained the restWhich earthly Sabbaths dimly shadow forth,And to that ransomed family art risen,Which have no need of prayer.

But thou, oh man!Whose hold on life is like the spider's web,Who hast thy footing 'mid so many snares,So many pitfalls, yet perceivest them not,—Seek peace with Him who made thee,—bind the shieldOf faith in Christ more firmly o'er thy breast,That when its pulse stands still, thy soul may passUnshrinking, unreluctant, unamazed,Into the fullness of the light of Heaven.