I WOULD NOT LIVE ALWAY. BY OTIS A. SKINNER. Death is the crown of life: Were death denied, poor man would live in vain : Were death denied, e'en fools would wish to die. YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS. In ancient paintings death was likened to a crowned skeleton, "with a dart in hand." Among the Jews it was represented as having a sword, "from which deadly drops of gall fell into the hearts of all men." The apostle has given us the same idea in his bold personification of death, where he describes it as an enerny, with a dagger to lay waste the nations of earth. The empire of this destroying angel is universal. Kings, reigning in pride and cruelty; warriors, riding in triumph over conquered nations; statesmen, toiling in the cause of freedom and humanity; divines, breathing the peaceful spirit of the gospel into the hearts of sinners, and lifting them up in knowledge and virtue; youth, cheered by the brightest hopes and fairest promises of earth, are all alike subject to his dominion. The agents by which he accomplishes his dark designs are innumerable. Disease, in its multifarious forms, the goadings of conscience, the angry winds, the heaving waves, and the vivid lightning, are all instruments which he wields from His, too, are all seasons. sea to sea. "Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O death! "We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, All places, also, are death's. "Thou art where billows foam; Thou art where music melts upon the air; "Thou art where friend meets friend, Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest: Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest." Thus death is indeed a "king of terrors," an enemy which delights in severing the nearest rela tions of life, blighting its fondest hopes, and spreading darkness over its fairest scenes. And yet, there are seasons when his coming is welcomed with gladness, and he is hailed as the "prince of peace." Not all the pains he can inflict, or the repulsive forms with which he can crowd the imagination, can render us unwilling to resign ourselves into his arms. None can wish to live alway, however much they may be fascinated by the charms of existence, or however fondly they may cling to its treasures in the morning and meridian of their days, and when the rose of health blooms upon the cheek, and the eye is bright with hope. Sickness, adversity, age, and the ravages of time, make us anxious to retire from this troubled world, and cause a darkness to settle upon the soul, which nothing but death can dissipate. Who would live alway, lingering in sickness, and racked with pain? Bodily suffering can unstring every chord of the soul, destroy the brightness and beauty of the sun, and robe the smiling earth in gloom and melancholy. A sick man once said," Philosophers have urged the institution of death as an argument against divine goodness; but not one of them could experience, for five minutes, the pain which I now endure, without looking upon it as a most merciful arrangement, as the Creator's benevolent hand stretched out to terminate my agony." What could render us more wretched, than to be destined to live forever, the prey of disease? Who would not prefer a thousand deaths, to such a life? How many, at this moment, are praying to be released from their prison of suffering! gone, Old age, also, renders death welcome. The temple of the mind, like every thing earthly, is subject to decay. Those aged pilgrims, just approaching the gates of the grave, are borne down with infirmity, their strength is their reason impaired, and their faculties are almost all wasted. They share the trials, without entering into the enjoyments, of the world. They cannot walk abroad in nature, to breathe its balmy air, view its smiling glories and transcendent beauties. Their eyes have grown dim, and the wide world upon which they have gazed, with the purest emotions of pleasure and profit, has become a blank. Their ears are heavy, and they can no longer enjoy the sweet strains of music, as they rise from the countless voices of earth, or listen to the rich and mellow tones of friendship and love. Thus almost every fountain of happiness is closed. Even their own minds have become feeble and childlike, incapable of the enjoyment possessed when those faculties were vigorous, through which they manifest themselves. Now who would live on from generation to generation, in this dark and dreary state? Who could desire to have their existence perpetuated, after their powers of happiness and usefulness were exhausted? The loss of friends, also, turns our thoughts and affections away from earth. The ties which bind us together are the sources whence flow the purest and sweetest streams of enjoyment. How happy the family over which the goddess of love presides, and where the same touch tunes every heart! Their hopes, and joys, and sympathies, are one; their spirits blend like mingling drops of water; and their souls respond in perfect harmony to the same notes of pain and gladness. How dark and desolate, then, the heart, when all these ties are sundered by death, when friend after friend departs, till the last object of affection has faded from the sight, and not a relative survives around whom the tendrils of the soul can entwine! Imagine a being, living constantly in a crowd, surrounded by an active and busy multitude, unloving and unloved; and can you conceive of a condition more lonely and wretched? Suppose one of the generation that built the mysterious tombs and pyramids of Egypt still living in the land of his fathers. The same heavens by which they were covered are over his head, and his steps are lighted by the same sun, moon, and stars; the same dark mountains are round about him, and the same waters are rolling at his feet. But where are his companions, those to whom he and fresh affections, and with whom he sung, studied, and toiled? where are the poets, historians, philosophers, and warriors of his early years? where the gave his young |