The daily crescent. [volume] ([New Orleans, La.]) 1848-1851, 1850-12-18


The grave is the ordeal of true affection. 1t is
there the divine passion of the soul manifests its
superiority to the instructive impulse of mere ami
NAL attachment The latter must be continually
refreshed and kept alive by the presence of its OBJ
lect but the love that sealed IN the soul live
on long remembrance. The mere inclinations of
sense, anguishng and declining with the charms
which excite them, turn with shudderng and
disgust from the dismal precincts of the tomb but
it is thence that truly spiritual affection rises puri
fed from every sensual desire, and returns, like
holy flame, to illumine and sanctfy the heart of the
survivor.
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from
which we refuse to be divorced. Every other
would seek to heal-every other attlIction to
forget: but this wound we consider il duty to
keep open-the aitliction we cherish and brood
over in solitude. Where is the mother who would
willingly forget the infant that peTshed like bios
som from her arms, though every recollection is a
pang? Where is the mother who would willingly
forget the most tender OF parents though to remem-
Der be but to lament Who, even in the hour of
agony, would forget the friend over which he
mourns Who, even when the tomb is closing
upon the remains of her he most loved, when he
feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing
Of its portal, woud accept of consolation that must
be bought by torgetfulness. No; the love which
survives the tomb is of the nobest attributes of
the soul. If it has woes, it likewise has its de-
lights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief
is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection
when the sudden anguish and the convulsve agony
is the present ruins of all that most loved,
is sottened away into pensive meditation all that
| it in the days OF its loveest-who would root
out such from the heart? Though it may
sometimes throw passing cloud over the bright
hour of gaiety spread deeper sadness over the
| hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even
| for the song of pleasure the burst of revelry
| No; there is voice from the tomb sweeter than
song. There is remembrance of the dead, to
which we turn even from the charms of the living.
| Oh, the grave the grave! 1t buries every er-
ror-covers every defect extnguishes every resent
| ment From its peaceful bosom springs none but
fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can
| look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and
! not feel a compunctive throb, that he had eveI
| warred with the poor handful of earth that lies
mouldering before him
But the grave of those we loved-what a place
Of meditation ! There is it that call up in long
review the whole history of virtue and gentleness,
and the thousand endearments lnvished upon us
| almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of in
macy there it is that the tenderness of the parting
scene, the bed of death with all its stifled grefs
its nOiseless attendance, its mute, watchful assdu
tiles, the last testimonials of expiring love! the fee
BILE, Hutering thrilling-oh! how thrlling-press'
ure of the hand the last fond look of the glazing
eye, turning upon us even from the threshold o
existence the faint taltering accents, struggling
in death, to give one more assurance of affection
Ay, go to the grave of buried love and medi
tate There settle the account with thy conscience
for every past benefit unrequited, every past en-
dearment unregarded, of that departed being wht
can never-never return to be soothed by thy con
| triton.
If thou art child, and hast ever added sorrow
to the soul, or fIrrow TO the silver brow of an af
fectionae parent-if thou art husband, and ha
, ever caused the fond bosom that has ventured it
whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one momen
of thy kindness or thy truth-f thou art friend
and hast ever Wronged in thought, word, o
deed, the spirit that generously COnfded in thee
e ifthou art lover, and hast ever given one un
g merited pang to that true heart which now lie
cold and still beneath thy feet, then be sure tha
:, every unkind look every ungracious word, ever
S ungente action, will come t,ronging back upo
= thy memory and knocking doefully at thy soul
then be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowin
and repentant on the grave, and utter the unhear
$ sroan, and pour the unavailing tear-mOre deeI
s more bitter, because unheard and unavailing.
: Then weave the chaplet of flowers, and sireN
2 the beauties of nature about the grave conso
thy broken spirit, if thou canst, with those tendt
s yet fertile tributes of regret, and take warning
: the bitterness of this, thy contrite sffliction ov
d the dead, and henceforth be more faithful and a
d iectonate in the discharge of thy duties to Il
:, living