service. Time's
finger touches, too, those watchers from the turret-windows (the eyes):
shade after shade falls over them; till, like slain sentinels that drop
at their posts, they look out again never-more.

Verse 4.--Closer still the enemy presses, till the close-beleaguered
fortress is shut out from all communication with the outer world; "the
doors are shut in the streets"; the ears are dulled to all sounds.
Even the grinding of the mill,[1] which in an eastern house rarely
ceases, reaches him but as a low murmur, though it be really as loud as
the shrill piping of a bird, and all the sweet melodies of song are no
longer to be enjoyed.

Verse 5.--Time's sappers, too, are busily at work, although unseen,
till the effect of their mining becomes evident in the alarm that is
felt at the slightest need of exertion. The white head, too, tells its
tale, and adds its testimony to the general decay. The least weight is
as a heavy burden; nor can the failing appetite be again awakened. The
man is going to his age-long home[2]; for now those four seats of life
are invaded and broken up--spinal-cord, brain, heart, and blood,--till
at length body and spirit part company, each going whence it
came;--that, to its kindred dust; this, to the God who gave it.

Thus to the high wisdom of Solomon man is no mere beast, after all. He
may not penetrate the Beyond to describe that "age-long home," but
never of the _beast_ would he say "the spirit to God who gave it." But
his very wisdom again leads us to the most transcendent need of _more_.
To tell us this, is to lead us up a mountain-height, to a bridgeless
abyss which we have to cross, without having a plank or even a thread
to help us. To God the spirit goes,--to God who gave it,--to Whom,
then, it is responsible. But in what condition? Is it conscious
still, or does it lose consciousness as in a deep sleep? Where does it
now abide? How can it endure the searching Light--the infinite
holiness and purity--of the God to whom it goes? How shall it give
account for the wasted years? How answer for the myriad sins of life?
How reap what has been sown? Silence here--no answer here--is awful
indeed,--is _maddening_; and if reason does still hold her seat, then
"Vanity of vanities, all is vanity," is alone consistent with the
fearful silence to such questions, and the scene is fitly ended by a
groan.

Deep even unto the shadow of death is the gloom. Every syllable of
this l