His uplifted dart is inexorable by Octavius Winslow. We are born to die. The treasured ones around us have within them the seeds of death, and upon them the sentence of death. The brilliant eye, the rosy cheek, The vermilion lip, the tall, graceful form, shooting up like a cedar, are often to a skillful and discerning glance, but as flowers blooming for the tomb.

Our home circles, with all the powerful barriers which affection and influence can cast around them, guarded as by angel sentinels of love, are not a security against the entrance of the king of terrors. Youth cannot resist him. Beauty cannot awe him. Wealth cannot bribe him. Eloquence cannot persuade him, Learning cannot confound him, Skill cannot baffle him, Tears cannot move him, Religion cannot evade his icy touch, To all this his uplifted dart is inexorable.

He takes the prince from the throne, the ruler from the state, the orator from the senate, the judge from the bench, the minister from the pulpit, the head from the family, the mother from the home, the babe from its mother's arms. None, none are spared.

Do you see that vacant chair? Those unread books? Those portraits on the wall? That treasured locket? That unworn apparel? What do they mean? Oh, how sad, how touching is their mute, expressive eloquence. They remind us of the departed. They tell of the eternal land where they have fled, where they will not return again until time is no more.

But what is this sad visitation of bereavement, but one of the appointed dispensations of our Heavenly Father, sent in unerring wisdom, righteousness, and love?

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