IN MEMORIAL.

Otago Witness, Issue 2600, 13 January 1904, Page 63

IN MEMORIAL.

By ArctoKA Lyxjts. Tis strange that those we lean on most, ] Those in whose laps cm limbs are nursed, j Fa.ll into shadow, soonest lost: j Those we love first are taken first. j — Tennyson. j It -was Sunday afternoon, and the sun shone hotly from a cloudless sky. In the graveyard there was no shelter from its scorching rays, and to those standing by tlie side of the newly-made grave there seemed something pitilessly criiel about the brightness and glare. It was out of keeping with their grief, and one at least almost longed for a little rain. It had always been a queer childish fancy of hers that when it rained the angels were weeping, and now she had a vague feeling of resentment against those spirits because the sun shone. "And the flowers will all wither !" she thought. Then from the church beyond the hawthorn hedge came the sound of music — slow, solemn, soothing church music — and presently the voices of the choir and congregation joined in the hymn, and those mourners in the graveyard stood and listened. It was only two weeks ago since God had called their dear one away, and their grief was very fresh yet. The sore feeling of bitterness, the terrible shock, the awful wonder of it — all war still just as when it happened ; and one standing there asked herself again and again, " Why, oh, why, did God take him?" There seemed so many that could bette rhave been spared ; some, indeed, whose removal would almost have been a blessing to those around them, and some whose release would have been a relief to themselves. Yet these were passed over, and God had chosen their one ! The bitterness of feeling could not be subdued. And again there was the question and the thought, "Could we have acted otherwise and had him spared to us?" And the torture of this thought was almost beyond the limitations of mental endurance. The thought of the past — the long past, with its many happy memories — instead of soothing only saddened, "because with the thought came the agonising knowledge that never, never again, no matter though they longed, though they prayed and wept, could one of those happy moments return. Ah ! if they had only "Valued them more ! Then came the thought of the future, and of all those years to pass, with the sore heart to carry ; of the nights they would dream of him, only to wake again and find their dream a mockery ; or of the wakeful, sleepless nights of toss-ing and thinking, with his face before them — his face, perhaps kind and th,qi\ghtful A as Uiev had so often seen it,

or sad and tired-looking, as of one v, ho had lived and loved and suffered ; or, even hardest of all, perhaps agonised and miserable, with eyes of infinite sadness, wondering why God should plcrs-c to toiture him so. These long wakeful hours of night were the most dreaded of all: to Ie with closed eyes trying to sleep, ar.d v. ith that dear face before one, so real and plain, that in very despair we open our eyes again to the light.

And the evenings — the lo'Tg evenings, when the clock ticks through the silence with a measured beat, and we sit quist and thoughtful, with that vacant chair before us, and that book he used to read lyingunopened now, mutely recalling the past, and perhaps some scrap of hi 3 handwriting comes unexpectedly to shake our calm and set us quivering again. W>; read some little article in tho paper, and it claims our interest ; we look up to enlist the attention and interest of others that we may discuss it, and we face that silence Or/ perhaps, as we read we do not lorget, but remember, and as we read thi; thought travels with us : "If only he could have read this!" Or perhaps we talk — talk in order to drive away that whispering question, "Why?" and through our talk we feel 'still a silence, a queer, undefinable silence. There seems something wanting, something missing altogether. What is it? Is it a step we wait for, listening with a hungry longing, such as w e never listened while he lived, and each minute seem*' a year, and each night a lifetime. Surely Grief is a terrible burden to carry, and Death is a fearsome thing !

Glad to go ! Well, at least it showed he was not afraid of what the future leld for him up there ; but it also showed that his sufferings, physical and mental , had been at times beyond the pluckiest heart and the best of self-control. We are told that God deals kindly, though it seems ever so harsh, and for our peace of mind here and hereafter we must tr\ to believe it. Still, how many of us with griefstricken homes can realise it at first? Howmany are there who can fold their hands and calmly say, "Thy will be dene !"' There are some wounds that never heal. Time softens them, and the gaping edges close together, till the world, losing sight of them, forgets the rankling soreness beneath ; and so it is till some careless person, with heedless finger and tongue, may touch it in passing, and then it quivers again. There were none to say aught but a kind word of him, and there were many who missed him sorely. A life of strict integrity, of such conscientious uprightness that our sore hearts gladden as we speak of it, and we can almost fancy we hear God's voice: — "Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter thou into the kingdom of heaven." 'Twcre bettei I should cease. Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps m peace. — Ternyson.