end, in some last wish, or charge, or prayer, or farewell,
or in some exclamation of joy or hope; and though years are multiplied
over the dead, that voice returns no more in any moment of day or night,
of joy or sorrow, of labor or rest, in life or in death.

The voices of creation return to us at periodical seasons. The early
spring bird startles us with her unexpected note; the winter is over and
gone. But no periodical change brings back the voices of departed
friends. A member of the family embarks on a long voyage; but, be it
ever so long, if life is spared, the letter is received, in which the
written words, so characteristic of him, recall his looks and the tones
of his voice. Years pass away, and the sound of his footsteps is at the
door again, and his voice is heard in the dwelling. But of the dead
there comes no news; from the grave no voice, from the separate state no
message. With our desire to speak once more to the departed, and to hear
them speak, we feel that they must have an intense desire to speak to
us. We wonder why they do not break the silence. There is so much of
which they could inform us; it would be such a relief, we think, to have
one word from them, assuring us that they arrived safely, and are happy,
and, above all things, granting us their forgiveness for the sins which
now have awakened sorrow. But we wait, and look, and wonder, in vain.

When we think of the number of the dead, this silence appears
impressive. Their number far exceeds that of the living. Could they be
assembled together, and could those now alive be set over against them,
upon an immense plain, to a spectator from above we should be a small
company in comparison with them. Should they lift up their voices
together, ours could not be heard. Yet from that vast multitude we never
hear a voice,--not even a whisper,--nor see a sign. Standing in a
cemetery a few miles distant from the great city, you hear the low,
muffled roar from the streets and bridges, reminding you of the living
tide which is coursing along those highways. But with eight thousand of
the dead around you in that cemetery, and a world of spirits, which no
man can number, just within the veil, you hear nothing from them. No one
comes back to tell us of his experience; no warning, nor comfort, nor
counsel, ever reaches our ears. Whatever our trouble, or our joy may be,
our need or prosperity; however long and painful the absence of the
departed may have been;