And now the bell, the bell she had so often heard by night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure, almost as a living voice, rung its remorseless toll for her, so young, so beautiful, so good.  Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy,—­on crutches, in the pride of health and strength, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life, gathered round her.  Old men were there, whose eyes were dim and senses failing, grandmothers, who might have died ten years ago, and still been old, the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied, the living dead, in many shapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave.

Along the crowded path they bore her now, pure as the newly fallen snow that covered it, whose day on earth had been as fleeting.  Under that porch, where she had sat when heaven, in its mercy, brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again, and the old church received her in its quiet shade.

XIV.  VANITY OF LIFE. (100)

Johann Gottfried von Herder, 1744-1803, an eminent German poet, preacher, and philosopher, was born in Mohrungen, and died in Weimar.  His published works comprise sixty volumes.  This selection is from his “Hebrew Poetry.” ###

Man, born of woman,
Is of a few days,
And full of trouble;
He cometh forth as a flower, and is cut down;
He fleeth also as a shadow,
And continueth not.

Upon such dost thou open thine eye,
And bring me unto judgment with thee? 
Among the impure is there none pure? 
Not one.

Are his days so determined? 
Hast thou numbered his months,
And set fast his bounds for him
Which he can never pass? 
Turn then from him that he may rest,
And enjoy, as an hireling, his day.

The tree hath hope, if it be cut down,
It becometh green again,
And new shoots are put forth. 
If even the root is old in the earth,
And its stock die in the ground,
From vapor of water it will bud,
And bring forth boughs as a young plant.

But man dieth, and his power is gone;
He is taken away, and where is he?

Till the waters waste from the sea,
Till the river faileth and is dry land,
Man lieth low, and riseth not again. 
Till the heavens are old, he shall not awake,
Nor be aroused from his sleep.

Oh, that thou wouldest conceal me
In the realm of departed souls! 
Hide me in secret, till thy wrath be past;
Appoint me then a new term,
And remember me again. 
But alas! if a man die
Shall he live again?

So long, then, as my toil endureth,
Will I wait till a change come to me. 
Thou wilt call me, and I shall answer;
Thou wilt pity the work of thy hands. 
Though now thou numberest my steps,
Thou shalt then not watch for my sin. 
My transgression will be sealed in a bag,
Thou wilt bind up and remove my iniquity.