It is well that God, in his
unsearchable wisdom, hath made death loathsome to us. It is well that an
undefined and instinctive shrinking within us, makes what we have loved
for long years, in a few hours
"That lifeless thing, the living fear."
It is well that the soul hath scarcely quitted the body ere the work of
corruption is begun. For if, even thus, mortality clings to the remnants
of mortality, with 'love stronger than death;' if, as I have seen it, warm
and living lips are pressed to features where the gradually sinking eye
and hollow cheek speak horribly of departed life; what would it be if the
winged soul left its tenement of clay, to be resolved only into a marble
death; to remain cold, beautiful, and imperishable; every day to greet our
eyes; every night to be watered with our tears? The bonds which hold men
together would be broken; the future would lose its interest in our minds;
we should remain sinfully mourning the idols of departed love, whose
presence forbade oblivion of their loveliness; and a thin and scattered
population would wander through the world as through the valley of the
shadow of death! How often have I been interrupted when about to nail down
a coffin, by the agonized entreaties of some wretch to whom the
discoloured clay bore yet the trace of beauty, and the darkened lid seemed
only closed in slumber! How often have I said, 'Surely _that_ heart will
break with its woe!' and yet, in a little while, the bowed spirit rose
again, the eye sparkled, and the lip smiled, _because the dead were
covered from their sight_; and that which is present to man's senses is
destined to affect him far more powerfully than the dreams of his
imagination or memory.
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