I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.

I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .

A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.

Christ taught an astonishing thing about physical death: not merely that it is an experience robbed of its terror but that as an experience it does not exist at all. To "sleep in Christ," like one that wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

Ah! never shall the land forget.