The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be
divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal; every other affliction, to
forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open. This affliction
we cherish, and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would
willingly forget the infant that has perished like a blossom from her
arms, though every recollection is a pang? Where is the child that would
willingly forget a tender parent, though to remember be but to lament?
Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he
mourns?
No, the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of
the soul. If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights: and when the
overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of
recollection; when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the
present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive
meditation on all that it was in the days of its loveliness, who would
root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may, sometimes, throw a
passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness
over the hour of gloom; yet, who would exchange it even for the song of
pleasure, or the burst of revelry? No, there is a voice from the tomb
sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn
even from the charms of the living.
Oh, the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect,
extinguishes every resentment! From its peaceful bosom spring none but
fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave
even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should have
warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him? But
the grave of those we loved--what a place for meditation! There it is that
we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness,
and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the
daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the
tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of
death, with all its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendance, its mute,
watchful assiduities! the last testimonies of expiring love! the feeble,
fluttering, thrilling,--oh! how thrilling!--pressure of the hand! the last
fond look of the glazing eye turning upon us, even from the threshold of
existence! the faint, faltering accents, struggling in death to give one
more assurance of affection!
Ay, go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account
with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited; every past
endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who can never--never--
never return to be soothed by thy contrition! If thou art a child, and
hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of
an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the
fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one
moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever
wronged, in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided
in thee; if thou hast given one unmerited pang to that true heart, which
now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind
look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging
back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure
that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repentant on the grave, and utter
the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear; more deep, more bitter,
because unheard and unavailing.
Then weave thy chaplet of flowers, and strew the beauties of nature about
the grave; console thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with these tender,
yet futile, tributes of regret: but take warning by the bitterness of
this, thy contrite affliction over the dead, and henceforth be more
faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy duties to the living.
--Irving.