THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
into a fever, and a fever to the plague, fear into despair, anger into rage, and loss into madness, and sorrow to amazement and confusion. But if either we were innocent, or else by the sadness we are made penitent, we are put to school, or into the theatre, either to learn how, or else actually to combat for a crown; the accident may serve an end for mercy, but is not a messenger of wrath."-Jeremy Taylor.
WHILE others crowd the house of mirth,
And haunt the gaudy show,
Let such as would with wisdom dwell,
Frequent the house of woe.
Better to weep with those who weep,
And share th' afflicted's smart,
Than mix with fools in giddy joys
That cheat and wound the heart.
When virtuous sorrow clouds the face,
And tears bedim the eye,
The soul is led to solemn thought,
And wafted to the sky.
The wise in heart revisit oft
Grief's dark sequestered cell;
The thoughtless still with levity
And mirth delight to dwell.
LIV. THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.
"DEATH implies separation: and the loss of those whom we love must, necessarily, so far as we can conceive, be accompanied with pain. To the brute creation, nature seems to have stepped in with some secret provision for their relief, under the rupture of the attachments. In their instincts towards their offspring, and of their offspring to them; I have often been surprised to observe how ardently they love, and how soon they forget. The pertinacity of human sorrow (upon which time also, at length, lays its softening hand) is probably, therefore, in some manner connected with the qualities of our rational or moral nature. One thing, however, is clear, viz., that it is better that we should possess affections, the sources of so many virtues, and so many joys, although they be exposed to the incidents of life, as well as the interruptions of mortality, than by the want of them, be reduced to a state of selfishness, apathy, and quietism."Paley.
"If we are to experience no other felicity but what this life affords, then are we miserable indeed. If we are born only to look about us, repine and die, then has Heaven been guilty of injustice. If this life terminates my existence, I despise the blessings of Providence, and the wisdom of the giver. If this life be my all, let the following epitaph be written on the tomb of Altangi :- By my father's crimes I received this; by my own crimes I bequeath it to posterity.'". Goldsmith's Citizen of the World.
THEY grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee;—
Their graves are severed, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight,-
Where are those dreamers now?
One, 'midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream is laid,-
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep:
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain :
He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,-
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth,—
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, oh earth!
LV. "ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE." "HONOUR thy father and thy mother; that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.'
"A mother, that earliest, most constant, most unfailing friend, whose kindness, beginning with our breath, blends with, and forms a part of, our whole history, ought not to go down to the grave without leaving the feeling of a melancholy void. I do not think that we have on earth so striking an image of God's goodness as in a mother's love."- Channing.
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.
OH that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.'
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say;
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes-
Blessed be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it-here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:3
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes!
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ?-It was.- -Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived:
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
THEY grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee ;—
Their graves are severed, far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight,—
Where are those dreamers now?
One, 'midst the forests of the west,
By a dark stream is laid,—
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep:
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain :
He wrapt his colours round his breast,
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one-o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'midst Italian flowers,-
The last of that bright band.
And parted thus they rest, who played
Beneath the same green tree;
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth,-
Alas! for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, oh earth!
LV. "ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE." "HONOUR thy father and thy mother; that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.'
"A mother, that earliest, most constant, most unfailing friend, whose kindness, beginning with our breath, blends with, and forms a part of, our whole history, ought not to go down to the grave without leaving the feeling of a melancholy void. I do not think that we have on earth so striking an image of God's goodness as in a mother's love."-Channing.
ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.
OH that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.'
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say;
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes—
Blessed be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim
To quench it-here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear,
O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidd'st me honour with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.
I will obey, not willingly alone,
But gladly, as the precept were her own:3
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief,
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream, that thou art she.
My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss ;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers-Yes!
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such ?—It was.-Where thou art gone,
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived:
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learned at last submission to my lot,
But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
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