By DI VERNON.
"Thou art sleeping in the grave."
The cold, damp sod lies upon thee, and the grass grows thickly there. In spring-time, the rain clouds burst over thee, and the warm fragrant breezes thou cans't not feel, sweet mother. In the summer, the roses bloom upon thy lonely grave, and when their leaves fall, they perish upon thy tomb. In the melancholy autumn, the dark trees wave sadly over thee, sweeping with their branches thy silent resting-place—and the dismal winds wail a requiem to thy repose. Winter comes—the many colored leaves have fallen and are dead—and the earth hardens— and no more waves the long, green grass—it is withered, like my heart, since thou art gone. Snow, white, glistening snow, falls and hides thy grave from the eyes of thy lonely child. Thou knowest it not, there, dear mother—for thy spirit there abideth not.
My own mother! when I had thee near me, why did I not love thee more ? Though earth has been desolate since thou art gone to heaven, and I know my love for thee was very, very great; still, I feel now that I never appreciated thee on earth. Oh, blessed spirit, now standing before a merciful God, and enjoying all the blessings of heaven, forgive, oh, forgive thy erring child her neglect and her disobedience.
Art thou not often with me in spirit, sweet mother? Do I not hear the rustling of thy angel wings about me and around? Dost thou not guard thy child from many a danger and many a sin? Yes, I am sure that it is so—I know that in the depth of the still midnight thou art murmuring to me in my dreams. Blessed spirit, be thou ever near me while I tarry in this weary land.
My own mother! Well I remember thee, from my earliest childhood. So tall, and slender, and fair wert thou, with thy glossy brown hair and thy meek blue eyes, and that face, so expressive of heavenly peace. Thou wert a faithful and devoted wife, and a kind and indulgent mother. Oh, blessed one! the void thou hast left in my heart will never, never be filled on earth. Oh, why didst thou leave me in the prime of thy womanhood ?—why leave me thus isolated with a spirit whose pale melancholy casts its shadow over all my life?
Mother, sweet mother! the tears are falling from mine eyes as I write—I weep because I see thee now no more, and because my sins may bar me from joining thee in that radiant clime where such only as pure as thou art can dwell. What happiness would be the surety of meeting thee there to part no more forever!
Not a day passes but thou art in my remembrance, though five years have fled since I beheld them bear thee away to thy dark and narrow- resting-place. Mother, my own mother, why did I not love thee nfore?
But bitter tears are blinding me—I must pause. I will go to my closet and pray for forgiveness, and for that "Peace which passeth all understanding."
