There is a remembrance
of the dead to which we turn even from the charms of the living. Oh,
the grave!- the grave!- It buries every error- covers every defect-
extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but
fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the
grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he
should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies
mouldering before him.
But the grave of those we loved- what a place for meditation!
There it is that we call up in long review the whole history of virtue
and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us almost
unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy- there it is that we
dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting
scene. The bed of death, with all its stifled griefs- its noiseless
attendance- its mute, watchful assiduities. The last testimonies of
expiring love! The feeble, fluttering, thrilling- oh! how
thrilling!- pressure of the hand! The faint, faltering accents,
struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection! The
last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us even from the
threshold of existence!
Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the
account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited every
past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never-
never- never return to be soothed by thy contrition!
If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or
a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent- if thou art a
husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole
happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy
truth- if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged, in thought, or
word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee- if thou
art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart
which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet;- then be sure that
every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action,
will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at
thy soul- then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant
on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing
tear; more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.
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