by Bram Stoker
As from the steps of the Sanctuary came the first words of the Service for the Burial of the Dead, a bright gleam of winter sunshine burst through the storied window of the Southern Transept and lit up the laurel pall till it glistened like gold.
And then for a little while few could see anything except dimly through their tears.
When the last words of the Benediction had been spoken over his grave, there came from the Organ-loft the first solemn notes of Handel’s noble Dead March. The great organ had been supplemented by military music, and as the mournful notes of the trumpets rose they seemed to cling to the arches and dim corners of the great Cathedral, tearing open our hearts with endless echoes. And then the solemn booming of the muffled drums seemed to recall us to the life that has to be lived on, howsoever lonely or desolate it may be.
“The song of woe Is after all an earthly song.”
The trumpets summon us, and the drums beat the time of the onward march — quick or slow as Duty calls.
March! March!
THE END
Golders Green Crematorium – Stoker’s final resting place
Stoker’s memorial plaque
