Little did he think,
apparently at least, that the Angel of Death pursued him
and would soon deliver the final message to him. He did not fear the end.
Why should he? Death has no terrors for the truly Christian soul.
It is not the end, but the beginning of life; not the destroyer,
but the restorer of our rights -- that which puts us in possession
of our eternal home in heaven. Therefore he was not gloomy nor despondent
at the sight of the grave. He saw beyond it the glorious sunshine
of God's presence and the cheering prospect of his love.
The final moment at last came and found him prepared. On the 23d of April,
1886, the soul of Abram J. Ryan, priest and poet, beloved of all who knew him,
passed quietly away, let us hope, from earth to heaven, there to sing
the glorious songs whose melodies are attuned to the harps of angels,
and whose mysterious harmonies ravish with delight the pure souls of the just.
As the setting sun on a calm eve sinks beneath the horizon,
gilding the heavens with its mild yet gorgeous splendor,
so did the grand soul of Father Ryan pass into eternity,
leaving behind the bright light of his genius and virtues --
the one to illumine the firmament of literature, and the other to serve
as a shining example to men.
Here the writer would end this imperfect tribute to a truly great character,
did he not wish to remind the reader that he must not regard it
as an entire portrait of the illustrious dead, though he has tried
to present him clothed with some, at least, of the attributes and qualities
which marked him during life.
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