A part of the church-yard is shaded by large trees. Under one of them
my mother lay buried. You have no doubt thought me a light, heartless
being. I thought myself so; but there are moments of adversity which let
us into some feelings of our nature to which we might otherwise remain
perpetual strangers.
I sought my mother's grave: the weeds were already matted over it, and
the tombstone was half hid among nettles. I cleared them away, and they
stung my hands; but I was heedless of the pain, for my heart ached too
severely. I sat down on the grave, and read, over and over again, the
epitaph on the stone.
It was simple,--but it was true. I had written it myself, I had tried
to write a poetical epitaph, but in vain; my feelings refused to utter
themselves in rhyme. My heart had gradually been filling during my
lonely wanderings; it was now charged to the brim, and overflowed, I
sunk upon the grave, and buried my face in the tall grass, and wept like
a child. Yes, I wept in manhood upon the grave, as I had in infancy upon
the bosom, of my mother. Alas! how little do we appreciate a mother's
tenderness while living! how heedless are we in youth of all her
anxieties and kindness! But when she is dead and gone; when the cares
and coldness of the world come withering to our hearts; when we find how
hard it is to find true sympathy;--how few love us for ourselves; how
few will befriend us in our misfortunes--then it is that we think of
the mother we have lost.
Pages:
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364