WOMAN.

I often pass by the tomb of a man with somewhat of calm indifference, perhaps may cast a glance, and think of the solitude of the grave, and of the time I, too, must slumber there; but ere the thought sinks deep, it is gone. But when I see the grave of a female a sigh involuntarily escapes me for with that holy name I associate tender and delicate affection. I look back through the misty past and see her as the young and joyous virgin, with eyes sparkling and cheeks crimsoned at each impassioned feeling of her heart. Again, I behold her as the chaste and virtuous matron—tired of the follies of a gay and sporting world—endeavoring to instill into the heart of her children that love, which, to burn as bright as noon-day sun, needs only to be associated with the holy name of “Mother.” Oh, there is something in contemplating the character of woman that raises the soul far above the things of earth. She stands as the bright oasis in the great desert of man’s life, bedewing his pillow with tears and strewing his pathway with flowers. When sickness compasses him about, and pains of disease get hold upon him, she is by his side as a ministering angel; and when his last hour comes and he must bid farewell to earth, who so willing to drop a tear upon his grave as woman? Oh! proud man, how can you think of all this when you look upon her last resting-place, and not drop a tear? The pages of history have done justice to the name of man, but the kind and unobtrusive excellencies of woman—though hers may have been the genius of a poet, mingled with the virtues of a saint, alike, sleep with her in the grave. Could we bind our thoughts together in fitting form, how fair a garland of sweet memories would grace the head-stones of our loved ones! How green the cyprus! How fresh the lily, white as their own pale faces when last we gazed upon them! Oh, how heavy are the sable vestments that enshroud us; heavy with grief and damp with tears of bitter, blighted sorrow! Damp with vapors from the silent tomb. “We loved her!” Oh, how much [111] the little sentence tells! How far back into the misty past it carries us. How far into the future it advances us. When but a puny child, her parents loved her first, and watched her almost every tottering step till she had learned somewhat of the ways of life, and how they looked forward to life’s evening, and its midnight too, with calm serenity, knowing that she would gently care for them, and make their night-time bright away, or joys annihilate the sweet sad with kindly deeds. Alas for human foresight! how little does our caring for the morrow profit us. One by one the most cherished affections of the heart bid us farewell, till there is nothing left for us in this world of woe. “We loved her.” There is one who has written in blood-red letters on the tombstone of his desolate heart, and no tears may ever wash out the memory of the departed loved one. In the bloom of youth she stood joyous and gay, but all that’s bright must fade. In sixty hours that fair flower faded, and the bright spirit passed to that rest prepared for the people of God. Father, mother, weep not! She can never return to you, but you can go to her.

B. N. M.

[112]

[Volume V: January, 1868]