Litchfield enquirer. [volume] (Litchfield, Conn.) 1829-current, 1850-07-04

By wAsmIxarox IRVING.

The grave Is the ordeal Of true afFec.
tion. Il is there the divine passion sf
the soul manifcsts its superiority to tbs
instructive impulse of mere animal attach
ment. The latter mustRbe continually
refreshed and kept alive by the presence
Of its object; but tine love that Is seated
in the soul can live on long remembrance.
The mere inclinations Of sense lanruisll
and decline With the charms which al.
cited them, and turn with shadderinr
and disgust from the precincts OF tho
tomb; but it is thence that truly spirit.
ual affection rises purified from every
sensual desire, and returns, like holy
fame. to illume and sanctify the llcarto Of
the survivor.
The sorrow for the dead is the only
serrew frem which we refuse to be
divorced. Every other wound ne seek
TO heal every other affection to forget
but this wound we consider il duty to
keep open--this affection We cherish
and brood over in solitude. Where is
the mother who would willingly forget
the infant that persisted like blossom
from her arms, though every recollec.
ton is pang? Where is the child, who
would willingly forget the most tender Of
parents, though to remember be but to
lament? Who, even in the hour of
agony, would forget the friend over
whom 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 it's portal, would accept of consolation
that must be bought by forgetfulness !?
No--the love which survives the tomb
IS one Of the uoblest attributes Of the soul.
1t It has woes, it has likewise its delights;
and when the overwhelming burst of
grief is Gained into the gentle tear of
recollection-when the sudden anguish,
and the convulsive agony over the pre-
sent ruins Of all that We most loved. is
sottened away into pensiye meditation Oh
all that it was ia the days Of its loyliness
---who would root out such sorrow from
the heart ?. Though it may sometimes
throw a passing cloud over the bright
hour Of gaity or spread deeper sadness
over the hour Of gloom, yet who would
exchange it even for the song of pleas,
are, or the burst Of revclry? No-there
il Q voice from the tomb sweeler than
song. There is remembrance Of the dead
to which we turn even from the charms
Of the living. Oh, the grave! the grave!
i buries. every error covers every de.
feet. extinguishes every resentment
From lis peaceful bosom spring none
but fond regrets and tender recollections.
Who can look downupon the grave even
ofan enemy, and not feel q conn unctious
throh. that heshould ever have yarred
with the poor handful Of earth that lies
Wondering before him.
But the grave ofthose we loyed--what
q place of meditation! There is all that
we call up in long review the whole his
tory Of the virtue and gentleness. and
the thousand cndearments lavishsd upon
US almost unhceded in the daily inter-
course Of intimacy; there it is that the
tenderness. the solemn, awful tenderness
Of the parting scene. the bed of death
with all its stiaed griefs its noiseless at
tendance its mute, watchful assiduities (!
the last testimonies of expiring love! the
feeble fiuttering. thrilling--oh! how
thrilling--pressure OF the hand the last
fond look Of the glazing eye. turning
upon US even from the threshold of exis-
tencc the faint faltering accents. strug.
Cling in death to give one more assurance
Of affection.
Aye, 60 to the grave Of buried love,
and mediate! There settle the acc 5uni
with thy eonscience for every past benefit
unrequit6d, every past endearment unre.
garded, of that departed being, who can
never-never return to be soothed BY thy
contr.tion. #
If thou art a child, and hast ever ad :,
ded sorrow to the soul, or furrow to
the silvered brow of an affcctionate. pa
rent--if thou art a husband, and hast ever
caused the fond bosom that ventured its
whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt
for one moment Of Thy kindness or thy
truth-if thou art friend and hast ever
wronged, in thought, or wo-d or deed
the spirit that generously con6ded ia thee
---if thou art lover. and hast ever Civ
en- one unmerited pang to that true heart
which now lies cold and still beneath tb =
feet, then be sure that every ungcntle
action will come thronging back upon
thy memory knocking dolefulIy at thy
soul then be sure that thou wilt lie
down sorrowing and repentant. Oh the
grave, and uttor the unheard groan and
pour the unayailjng tear-.-n,ore deep
more bitter, because unheard and uRa-
vailing.
Then weave the chaplet Of flowers. and
strew the beauties Of nature about the
grave; console thy broken spirit il thou
canst. with these tender, yet futile trib.
utcs Of regret: and take warning BY the
bitterness Of this thy c,ntritc affection
over The dead. and hsneeforth be more