in a land of special personal inquisition, and the mark for thousands of inimical scrutinies, he yet lived out his allotted time, beyond the arrows of calumny, and those who knew him best said that the words they heard over his grave seemed intended for him; “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God!” The lilies, which were his favourite flowers, and which loving hands laid on his coffin, were not misplaced thereon. Truly if men cannot gather grapes of thorns nor figs of thistles, then must the root of that most fruitful life have been a sound one.
At last the end came. The eloquent orations he had poured forth so freely for every righteous cause, and the incessant travelling at all seasons to deliver them, wheresoever he was called, brought out the tendencies of hereditary disease. The last journey he ever made in America was in the midst of a northern winter, and when he was already ill, to perform a funeral service in a friend's family, or rather to comfort the mourners with his sympathy, and speak to them (as he knew so well how to do) of God's great love in their affliction. He returned home much worse, but refused to give up working, and prepared as usual his sermon for the week. He had never spared himself at any time. The words of a hymn he often called for in his church fitted well his brave unwearied spirit:
“Shall I be carried to the skies
On flowery beds of ease,
While others fought to win the prize,
Or sail’d through bloody seas?”
Or another, of Whittier’s, which he liked equally well.
“Hast thou through life's empty noises
Heard the solemn steps of time,
And the low mysterious voices
Of another clime?
Not to ease and aimless quiet
Doth the inward answer tend,
But to works of love and duty
As thy being’s end;
Earnest toil and strong endeavour
Of a spirit, which within
Wrestles with familiar evil
And besetting sin,
And without with tireless vigour,
Steadfast heart and purpose strong,
In the power of faith assaileth
Every form of wrong.”
