Page:Letters to Mothers (1839).djvu/304

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heavy business absorbs him, and time is for him no longer, and his soul is demanded, and must go [236] forth, to give account of itself, and of the use it has made of those treasures from which it parts.

We should consider the goodness of God, in giving to our wearied frames the repose of the grave. The dim eye seeks a long sleep. The ear rests from the toil of gathering sounds. The lip grows silent. The limbs cease from their labour. The senses, those reporters of the mind, resign their office. In the citadel of life, the sentinels slumber. The red fluid, so long circulating through its thousand channels, stagnates. The clay-fabric, mysteriously tenanted by the unresting spirit, is ready to dissolve. "God giveth his beloved, sleep."

Let not the couch where Nature takes her last farewell, be troubled by demonstrations of undisciplined sorrow, from those who surround it. The ill-judged efforts of friends, too often heighten the suffering they would fain relieve. Changes of position, fruitless attempts to administer medicine, or nourishment, the restless officiousness of grieving affection, distress the voyager to the world of spirits. Even a heathen Emperor could counsel that the great transition should be made with calmness. "Thou hast taken ship, thou hast sailed, thou hast come to land. Go tranquilly