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 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.
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