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.
