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 sank 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 we think of the mother we have lost. It is
true I had always loved my mother, even in my most heedless days; but I
felt how inconsiderate and ineffectual had been my love. My heart
melted as I retraced the days of infancy, when I was led by a mother's
hand and rocked to sleep in a mother's arms, and was without care or
sorrow. "Oh, my mother!" exclaimed I, burying my face again in the
grass of the grave--"Oh, that I were once more by your side; sleeping,
never to wake again, on the cares and troubles of this world!"
I am not naturally of a morbid temperament, and the violence of my
emotion gradually exhausted itself. It was a hearty, honest, natural
discharge of griefs which had been slowly accumulating, and gave me
wonderful relief.
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