ruin and death can be imagined to feel of desolating woe, of
majestic sorrow, wails in the musical ringing of this passing
bell, mourns in the tolling of this solemn knell, as it
accompanies the mighty escort on its way to the still city of the
Dead. The intensity of mystic hope; the devout appeal to
superhuman pity, to infinite mercy, to a dread justice, which
numbers every cradle and watches every tomb; the exalted
resignation which has wreathed so much grief with halos so
luminous; the noble endurance of so many disasters with the
inspired heroism of Christian martyrs who know not to despair;--
resound in this melancholy chant, whose voice of supplication
breaks the heart. All of most pure, of most holy, of most
believing, of most hopeful in the hearts of children, women, and
priests, resounds, quivers and trembles there with irresistible
vibrations. We feel it is not the death of a single warrior we
mourn, while other heroes live to avenge him, but that a whole
generation of warriors has forever fallen, leaving the death song
to be chanted but by wailing women, weeping children and helpless
priests. Yet this Melopee so funereal, so full of desolating woe,
is of such penetrating sweetness, that we can scarcely deem it of
this earth. These sounds, in which the wild passion of human
anguish seems chilled by awe and softened by distance, impose a
profound meditation, as if, chanted by angels, they floated
already in the heavens: the cry of a nation's anguish mounting to
the very throne of God! The appeal of human grief from the lyre
of seraphs! Neither cries, nor hoarse groans, nor impious
blasphemies, nor furious imprecations, trouble for a moment the
sublime sorrow of the plaint: it breathes upon the ear like the
rhythmed sighs of angels. The antique face of grief is entirely
excluded. Nothing recalls the fury of Cassandra, the prostration