The Massachusetts spy, and Worcester County advertiser. [volume] ([Worcester, Mass.]) 1825-1831, 1830-02-17
MY MOTHERS GRAVE.

!.
But then there came a fearful day
L sought my mothers bed
I'LL harsh hands tore me thence awav.
And told me she was dead.
1t was thirteen years since my mothers
death, when, after long absence from nav
native village, | stood beside the sacred
mound beneath which had seen her buried.
Since that mournful period, a great change
had come over me. My childish wears had
passed away, and with them nv youthful
character. The world has altered too; and
as stood at my mothers grave, / could
hardly realize that was the same thought
less, happy creature, whose cheeks she SO
often kissed IN an excess of Tenderness. But
the varied events of thirteen years had not
ettaced the remembrance of that mothers
smile. 1t seemed as if had seen her but
yesterday-as if the blessed sound of her
well remembered voice was in my ear. The
gay dreams of my infancy and childhood
were brought back so distinctly to my mind,
that had it not been for one bitter recollec
ton, the tears I shed would have been gen.
tie and refreshing. The circumstance NAV
seem trltling one-but the thought of it
now pains my heart, and | relate it, that
| those children who have parents to love
them, may learn to value them as thew
ought.
My mother had been i'll long time, and
l had become so accustomed to her male
face and weak voice, that | was not fright
ened at them, as children usually are. At
first, 1t is true, | sobbed violently when
day after day | returned from school and
found her the same. | began to believe she
would always he spared to me; but thew
told me she would die
One day when had lost nv place in the
class, and done my work wrong side out.
ward came home discouraged, and fretfuI.
went into my mothers chamber. She was
paler than usual, but she met me with the
same affectionate smile that always welcom-
ed my return. Alas when | look back
through the lapse of thirteen years, | think
my heart must nave been stone, not to have
melted by it. She requested me to 90 down
stairs, and bring her glass of water-I
pettlshly asked why she did not call do
nestle to do it. With look of mild re-
proach which shall never forget if live
to be hundred years old, she said, "And
VIII not my daughter bring glass of water
for her poor sick mother %
| went and brought her the water, but |
did not do it kindly. Instead of smiling
aud kissing her, as was wont to do, | sat
f66m: AUef 'prtyRy f'sh5Iv ag444r ri ai the
TO bed without bidding my mother good
night; but when alone IN my room, in dark
ness and silence, remembered how pale
she looked, and how her voice tremjled
when she said, "Will not my daughter
bring glass of water for her poor sick
mother 2" | couldn't sleep. | stole into
her chamber to ask forgiveness. She had
sunk into an easy slumber, and they told me
must not waken her. | did not tell any
one what troubled me, but stole back to my
bed, resolved TO rise early in the morning,
and tell her how sorry | was for my con-
duct.
The sun was shining brightly when |
awoke, and, hurrying on my clothes, | has
tened to my mothers chamber. She was
dead She never spoke more-never smil
ed upon me aguin-and when touched the
hand that used to rest upon my head in
| blessing, it was so cold that it made me
start ] bowed down by her side, and sob
! bed in the bitterness of my heart. Thought
| then | wished | might die and be buried
with her I; and old as | now am, l would
! give worlds, were they mine to give, could
nv mother but have lived to tell me she for
gave nv childish ingratitude. But Icannot
call her back, and when l stand by her
grave, and whenever think of her manifold
| kindness, the memory of that reproachful
look she gave me, will bite like serpent
and sting like an adder.
THE INFIpEL. 1t is an awful commenta-
ry on the doctrine of infidelity, that its most
strenuous supporters have either miserably
falsfed their sentiments in the moment VI
trial, or terminated their existence in obscu
rity and utter wretchedness. The gifted
author of the Age of Reason" passed the
Hast years of his life in manner which The
lmeanest slave that ever trembled beneath
the lash of the taskmaster, could have NJ
cause to envy. Rosseau might indeed bt
pointed out, as in some degree an exception
but it is we'll known, that the enthusI
as.ic philosopher was a miserable and dis
appointed man. He met death, it is true
with something like calmness. Blu; he hat
no pure and beautiful hope beyond the per
ishing things of the natural world. HI
loved the works of God for their exceedin,
heauty-not for their manifestation of a
overriding intelligence. Life had become
,, burthen 10 him, but his spirit recoiled at tn
dampness and silence Of the sepulchre-
= the cOlu, uHnToken steep, anu Tue SlOV
i wasting away Of mortality. He persisted
worshipper of that beauty which bu
family shadows forth the unimaginabl
glory of its Creator. At the closing hour c
day-when the broad West was CLOWN
, like the gates of paradise, and the vine
hung hills of his beautiful land were bathe
in the rich light of sunset, the philosophe
departed. The last glance of his glazin
, eye, was to him an everlasting farewell t
, exstence--the last homage of godik
/ intellect to holiness and beauty. The black
, ness of darkness was before hm--th
valley Of the shadow of Death was to hi.
unacceptable and eternal-the better Ian
! beyond it was shIouded from his vision.
Whittier.
! We might as well expect, when we behold