Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Death of Mr. Oliver D. Cooke
DEATH OF MR. OLIVER D. COOKE.
Death's shafts are ever busy. The fair haunts
Where least we dread him, and where most the soul
Doth lull itself to fond security
Reveal his ministry; and were not man
Blind to the future, he might see the sky
Even in the glory of its cloudless prime
Dark with that arrow-flight.
They deemed it so,
Who marked thee like a stately column fall,
And in the twinkling of an eye yield back
Thy breath to Him who gave it. Yes,—they felt,
Who saw thy vigorous footstep strangely chained
Upon the turf it traversed, and the cheek
Flushed 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 breast
Were ranklings of a recent grief for her
The idol of thy tenderness, with whom
Life had been one long scene of changeless love.
Yea, thou didst watch the winged messenger
In sleepless agony, that bore her hence,—
And when the eye did darken, from whose beams
Thine 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 frost
Congeal'd the fount of life.
Thy toil had been
In that brief interval, to bear fresh plants
From the sweet garden which she loved to tend,
And bid them on her burial-pillow bloom.
But ere the young rose, or the willow-tree
Had taken their simplest rooting, thou wert laid
Low by her side. It was a pleasant place
Methought to rest,—earth’s weary labor done,
Fanned by the waving of those drooping boughs,
And in her company, whom thou didst choose
From all the world, to travel by thy side,
Confidingly,—by deep affection cheer'd,
And in thy faith a sharer.
From the haunts
Of living men thine image may not fleet
Noteless away. They will remember thee,
By many a word of witness for the truth,
And many a deed of bounty. In the sphere
Of those sublimer charities that gird
The mind—the soul—thine was the ready hand:
And for the hasting of that day of peace
Which sheathes the sword, thine was the earnest prayer.
In thine own house and in the church of God
There will be weeping for thee. Thou no more
Around thine altar, shalt delight to see
Thy children, and thy children's children come
To take thy patriarch blessing,—and no more
Bring duly to yon consecrated courts
Thy Sabbath offering. Thou hast gained the rest
Which 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 shield
Of faith in Christ more firmly o'er thy breast,
That when its pulse stands still, thy soul may pass
Unshrinking, unreluctant, unamazed,
Into the fullness of the light of Heaven.