It is the inestimable privilege of the living to revere the memory of the dead.

Lapse of time only serves to more vividly impress us with the virtues of the departed.

There is no mind so crowded with business cares but which will revert to happy hours spent with one who has fallen before the scythe of the Grim Reaper.

There is no heart that ever enjoyed a reciprocated love, but which will refuse to be exiled from the narrow cell that contains the remains of all that is worth loving.

There are no eyes which ever reflected the love of a true heart but which are ready to nourish with their tears the grass which carpets the last resting place of the one who commanded that affection. Death dominates over us with a tyranny that is almost unbearable but after all there is a limit to its despotism.

It may over-awe us with its icy cruelty, it may dash our hearts to pieces on the rock of despair, but it is powerless to prevent us from adoring the soul that is God.

As the end drew near his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know.

Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world, he heard the great waves breaking on the other shore, and felt already up on his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning.

When for him the tolling bells proclaimed life's evening hour he heard the vespers angel song and joined in the great amen.

When shadows gathered about his passing life and earthly scenes were slipping away his soul turned with confidence to God and heaven.

Asleep beneath the flowers that fain would have kissed his eye lids to awakening, we laid him to rest to await the resurrection morn.
"We paused and breathed a prayer above the sod.
And left him to his rest and God."
A Friend.