Let me
sleep in the forgetfulness of the one, to awake to the fruition of the
other!
I have been to the graves of my father and my mother. For more than a
third of a century they have been sleeping here. I sat down in the
moonlight, and placed my hand upon the cold, heavy stone which rests
above them: they do not feel its pressure, but sleep well. They are
but earth now--and why am I here? The moon and the stars are the same,
and as sweetly bright, looking down upon this sacred spot, as they
were when, a little child, I sat upon the knee of her who is nothing
here, and listened to her telling me the names of these, as she would
point to them, and ask me if I did not see them winking at me. Yet
they are there, and the same now as then. But where is that gentle,
sweet, affectionate mother? Is she up among these gems of heaven? Is
she yonder in the mighty Jupiter, looking down, and smiling at me? Is
she permitted, in her new being, to come at will, and breathe to my
mind holy thoughts and holy feelings? Disembodied, is she, as God,
pervading all, and knowing all? Does she, with that devotion of heart
which was so much hers in time, still love and protect me? Shall I,
when purified by death, go to her? and shall this hope become a
reality, and endure forever? Surely, this must be true; or, why are
these thoughts and hopes in the mind--why this affection sublimated
still in the heart--why this link between the living, and the dead, if
its fruition shall be denied in eternity? Why this question, which
implies a doubt of the goodness of God? Sweet is the belief, sweeter
the hope, that I shall see that smile of benignity, feel that gentle,
loving caress, and forever, in unalloyed bliss, participate heaven
with her.
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