The fallen brave.
Of all the forms in which man can meet death, none is more grand and beautiful than that in which he lays down his life in a good cause. Death is the common lot of all, and in one shape or other must overtake every man; but he who goes forth to meet it for the benefit of humanity, may well be said to die more gloriously than did Socrates, for "Socrates died like a philosopher," but this man "like a God." Nobler life can no man live than he who walks in the footsteps of the incarnate Son of Deity, nor a more godlike death than to perish, in humble imitation of Him, for the good of the human race. Thus the Martyrs and Confessors of all ages, who have passed through great tribulations and at last sealed their holy faith with their blood, are most honored in the Christian church of all the earthly representatives of its crucified and risen Lord, the Divine Martyr of Calvary. And surely, next to them, in disinterestedness, self-sacrifice and heroism, we may place the glorious men who die for their country. But it is wrong to say that such men die. Bullets and bayonets may slay the body; the soul they cannot hurt. Pure as the overhanging firmament from which their spirits look down upon us, bright as the stars which illumine its immeasurable depths, immortal as the Being whose presence pervades illimitable space, the spirits of the just can never die. Every generous heart feels a pang of agony as well as pride to see many a mother's darling, the laughing dimples of youth yet upon his beardless cheek, rush gaily by to the scene of strife and blood, and hot tears rush to eyes unused to weep at the thought of that fair head pillowed on the bloody turf; and yet, where could mortal die as well? Pity the desolate ones at home; but for him, the death that must have come at last and tom him reluctant from the earth, he has gone bravely forth to meet, and in the virtue and valor of self- sacrifice, has robbed it of its sting and despoiled the grave of its victory. When Wolfe, on being told that the French retreated, exclaimed, "I die happy," he expressed, no doubt, the feelings of every true hero as he looks his last upon the earth and feels that he has not died in vain. Happy in being a benefactor, at the cost of his own life, to his native land and to humanity; happy in knowing that he will be remembered with love and gratitude, and that he himself will be permitted to look down and see how from his blood will spring the life-giving plants of freedom, independence, and happiness to his country. The deepest affliction of death, in this as in every other form, is not that of those who die, but the relatives who survive. Human sympathy is inadequate to the consolation of those who suffer from distress like this. The hackneyed common-places of funeral occasions stir the soul as little as the sable pumas and crapes which custom has prescribed for the funeral procession. For the man who dies in peaceful life there is, outside his own family and relatives, no real grief, and little sympathy even with the wretched survivors. But for him who dies in his country's cause, a country mourns; every heart honors his memory, every eye weeps with those who weep for him, and every breast is anxious to share the burthen of their woes. ‘ How sleep the brave, who sink to rest,By all their country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers sold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She then shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms passes their ;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the that day,
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.
’
