When We Shall Reach That Brighter Shore

9 March 1876 – Wayneboro Record (PA)

IN MEMORY OF JOS. A. ROWE.

BY A. L. MANNING, M. D.

Dead! can it be that Rowe is dead? The true, the kind, the noble just;
That his exalted spirit’s fled, And that his form returns to dust.

How little did I think when last I met his smiling face on earth,
That he would have so quickly passed Beyond our music, and our mirth.

It seems so strange, though well I know, That death is stealing through the land,
Filling it with all sorts of woe, And slaying us on every hand.

Yet, little did I think ’would be Our “Joseph Rowe,” when I was there;
Whose music rolled so grand and free Out on that pleasant evening air.

And Nettie’s orphaned,—that sweet girl, So like her father in the face,
But so revolves this changing world, Some dying, while some take their place.

But ah! alas! this debt we all Sooner, or later, have to pay;
Since our first parents took the fall And from their Eden passed away.

A few short years is all that we Can claim, while here on earth below;
Upon the mountain, land or sea, No matter where, we have to go.

The just, the unjust, are all doomed, Before the mower’s scythe to fall,
Some, just as manhood’s power has bloom- ed And some before it blooms at all.

But ah! alas! death comes so near When smiting down those that we love;
And Bro. Rowe’s no longer here, But let us look for him above.

Oh! let us trust in him who gave, And who has power to take away
Our friends, whose souls he died to save, That they may live eternally.

They cannot come, but we may go; Treading the path our Savior trod,
First in the grave so dark and low, Then through it to almighty God.

This is a warning to all here, That in the midst of life, there’s death,
For with our smiles there comes a tear, And in our shouting's cease our breath.

There’s nothing permanent below, Nothing enduring here for man,
Where all is but a fleeting show, The mountains, rocks, oceans and sand,

All, all are passing from our view, And as the eyes in death shall glare,
We’ll find that only God is true, The ancient of eternal days.

And as the earth fades from our eyes, Before the murky-film of death,
So will it—and the starry skies, Be blown out by the maker’s breath:

And all these spirits, and these dead Come forth when the loud blast is given
By the Arch-angel overhead Sounding the trumpet, from yon heaven.

And all we’ve known on earth, will then Be seen, and known, and recognized,
The forms and faces of the men, And all the humans that arise,

Then it behooves us to appear Robed in the form of Righteousness,
That when the dreadful trump we hear, 'Twill give our spirits no distress.

Face unto face with God we'll stand, And every idle word and deed,
Will then, by the recorder's hand Be written that the world may read.

And from those books before the throne, Eternal judgement shall be given;
The sentence of depart, unknown, Or welcome to the joys of heaven.

Then let us try to be prepared To join our friends who go to heaven,
And who our joys and woes have shared, Nor let us from these joys be driven.

'Tis human nature here to mourn, For our true friends when they shall die,
And to the graves their forms are born Where long in silence they shall lie,

But oh! through death they pass to live, Where souls will no more weep or sigh,
And anguish has no more to give, If they have served their God on high.

Then weep no more, dry every tear For him who has but gone before,
To welcome us, who linger here, When we shall reach that brighter shore.

Baltimore, Md.