I
wandered to another part of the churchyard, where I remained
until the funeral train had dispersed.
When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave,
leaving behind her the remains of all that was dear to her on
earth, and returning to silence and destitution, my heart ached
for her. What, thought I, are the distresses of the rich? They
have friends to soothe--pleasures to beguile--a world to divert
and dissipate their griefs. What are the sorrows of the young?
Their growing minds soon close above the wound--their elastic
spirits soon rise beneath the pressure--their green and ductile
affections soon twine round new objects. But the sorrows of the
poor, who have no outward appliances to soothe--the sorrows of
the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintry day, and who can
look for no after-growth of joy--the sorrows of a widow, aged,
solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the last solace
of her years,--these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the
impotency of consolation.
It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way
homeward, I met with the woman who had acted as comforter: she
was just returning from accompanying the mother to her lonely
habitation, and I drew from her some particulars connected with
the affecting scene I had witnessed.
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