The Massachusetts spy, and Worcester County advertiser. [volume] ([Worcester, Mass.]) 1825-1831, 1829-12-09
THE BRoKEN.HEARTED.

have seen the infant sinking down, like
stricken flower, to the grave-the strong
man hercely breathing out his soul upon the
neld OF battle-the miserable convict stand
ing upon the scaffold, with a deep curse
quiverlng on his lips-I have viewed death
IN all It's forms Of darkness and vengeance
with fearless eYe-but | never could look
on woman, young and lovely woman, fading
away from the earth in beautiful and un-
complaining melancholy, without feeling the
very fountains of life turned to tears and
DUST Death is always terrible-but when
a form of angel beauty is passing off to the
silent land of the sleepers, the heart feels
that something lovely in the universe is
ceaslng from existence, and broods, with a
/ sense of utter desolation, over the lonely
thoughts, that come up, like spectres from
the grave to haunt our midnight musings.
| Two years ago, | took up my residence
tot few weeks, in country village in the
eastern part of New England. Soon after
my arrival, became acquainted with love-
ly girl apparently about seventeen years of
age. She had lost the idol of her pure
hearts purest love, and the shadows of deep
ana hoiy memories were resting like the
wing OF death upon her brow. I first met
her IN the presence of the mirthfu. She
was indeed creature to be worshipped-
her brow was garlanded with the Young
years sweetest fiowers-her yellow locks
were hanging beautifully and low upon her
bosom1and she moved through the crowd
with such floating and unearthly grace,
that the pewildered gazer almost looked to
see her fade away into the air, like the Gre
| alton OF some pleasant dream. She seemed
cheerful and even gay, yet / saw that her
galety was but the mockery of her feelings.
She smiled. but there was something in her
smile, which told, that its mournful beauty
was but the bright reflection of tear-and
her eye-lids, at times, closed heavily down.
as II struggling to repress the tide of agony,
that was bursting up from her hearts secret
urn. She looked as if she could have left
the scene of festivity, and gone out beneath
the quiet stars, and laid her forehead down
upon the fresh, green earth, and poured out
her stricken soul, gush after gush, till it
mingled with the eternal fountain Of life
and purity.
Days and weeks passed on, and that
sweet girl gave me her confidence, and |
became to her as brother. She was vast
ing away by disease. The smile upon her
up was fainter, the purple veins upon her
cheek grew visible, and the cadences of
her voice became daily more weak and
tremulous. Ona quiet evening in the depth
OF June, l wandered out with her a little
distance IN the open air. 1t was then, that
she first told me the tale of her passion. and
OF the blight that had come down like mil
dewupon her life. Love had been a portion
OF her existence. Its tendrils had been
twMed around her heart in its earliest
years, and, when they were rent away, thew
LETT awound which flowed till all the springs
of her soul were blood. 81 am passing
away" said she, "and it should be so. The
winds have gone over my life, and the
bright buds of hope and the sweet blossoms
Of passion are scattered down, and lie with
eiing in the dust, or rotting away upon the
chill waters of memory. And yet cannot
go down among the tombs without tear.
1t is hard to take leave of the friends who
love met is very hard to bid farewell to
these dear scenes, with which have held
communion from childhood, and which, from
day to day, have caught the color of my
life and sympathised with his joys and sor-
rows. That little grove, where l have so
often strayed with my buried love, and
where, at times, even now, the sweet tones
of his voice seem to come stealing around
me till the whole air becomes one intense
and mournful melody-that pensive star,
which we used to watch in its early rising,
and on which my fancy can still picture his
form looking down upon me and beckoning
me to his own bright home-every flower,
and tree, and rivulet, on which the memory
Iof our early love has set its undying seal.
lhave become dear to me, and | cannot,
without sigh, close my eyes upon them for
ever"
| have lately heard, that the beautiful
girl, of whom have spoken, is dead The
close of her life was calm as the falling of
quiet stream-gentle as the sinking Of
the breeze, that fingers, for time, around
bed of withered roses, and then dies 81 as
twere from very sweetness"
1t cannot be that earth Is mans only
abiding place. 1t cannot be that our life is
bubble cast up by the ocean of eternity,
to float moment upon its waves and sink
into darkness and nothingness. Else why
is it, that the high and glorious aspirations,
which leap like angels from the temple of
our hearts, are for ever wandering abroad
unsatisfied? Why is it, that the rainbow
and the cloud come over us with a beauty,
that is not of earth, and then pass off and
leave us to muse upon their faded lowell
ness? Why is it, that the stars, which
"hold their festivals around the midnight
throne," are set above the grasp of our
limited faculties-for ever mocking US with
their unapproachable glory And, finally,
why is it, that bright forms of human beauty
are presented to our view and then taken
from us--leaving the thousand streams of
our affections to flow back in an Alpine tor
rent upon our hearts? We are born for q
higher destiny than that of earth. There
is realm where the rainbow never fades,
where the stars will be spread out before
us like the islands, that slumber on the
ocean, and where the beautiful beings,
which here pass before us like visions, will
stay in our presence for ever. Bright crea-