Monmouth weekly herald. [volume] (Freehold, N.J.) 1854-1860, 1856-02-13
The Graves of the Loved.
BY WASHINGTON IRVING.

The Graves of the Loved.
BY WASHINGTON IRVING.
The grave is the ordeal of true affec-
ton. 1t is there the divine passion of the
soul manifests its superiority to the in
stinctive impulses of mere animal attach
ment. The latter must be continually re
freshed and kept alive by the presence of
the object, but the love that is seated on
the soul can live on long remembrance
The mere indications of sense ianguishing
and declining with the charms which ex-
cite them, turn with shuddering and dis
gust from precincts Of the tomb; but it is
thence that the spiritual affection rises
purified from every sensual desire, and
turns like holy fame to illuminate and
sancify the heart Of the survivor. The
sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow
from which we refuse to be divorced. =
Every other would we seek to heal-every
other affection to forget; but this wound
we consider it duty to keep open-the
Affections we cherish and brood over in
willingly forget the infant that persisted
like blossom from her arms, though
every recollection is pang? Where is
the daughter that would willingly forget
the most tender Of parents, though TO re-
member be but to lament who, even in
the hour Of agony, would forget the friend
over whom he mourns? Who, when the
tomb is closing upon the remains Of her
he most loved-when he feels his heart as
it we're, crushed in the closing of its por-
tal-would accept consolation that must
be brought by forgetfulness No; the
love which survives the tomb is one Of
the noblest attributes Of the soul. If it
has woes, it likewise has its delights; and
when the Overwhelming burst Of grief is
Gained into the gentle tear of recollection
when the sudden and convulsive agony
is over-the present ruin Of all that we
most loved is softened away into pensive
meditation on all that it was III the days
of its loneliness. Who will root out such
a sorrow from the heart? Though it
may sometimes throw passing cloud over
the bright hours Of gaiety, or spread a
deeper sadness over the hour of gloom.
yet who would ayc bars o # r6a4c t5 No
there is a voice from tbea tomb swfeter
than song. Thereiis Remembrance of
the dead to which we turn even from the
charms Of the living. Oh, the grave !!
the grave! 1t buries every error, covers
every defect, extinguishes every resent
mcnt. From its peaceful bosom springs
none but fond regret and tender recollcc-
ton! Who can look upon the grave even
of an enemy, and not feel compunctive
throb that he had ever warred against
the poor handful of earth that lies moul-
dering before him?
But the grave Of those we loved-what a
place Of meditation There it is that we
call up in long review the whole history
of virtue and happiness, and the thousand
endearmcnts lavished upon us almost un-
needed in the daily course of intimacy;
the tenderness Of the parting scene-the
bed of death, with all its stihed griefs. its
noiselcss attendants, its mute, watchful
assiduities last testimonials of ex-
piring lorc--the feeble, futtering, thrill
ing-oh. how thrilling !-pressure of the
hand-the faint, faltering accents, strug-
Cling in death to give one more assurance
of affection
Ay, go to the grave of a buried love
and mediate! there settle the account
with conscience for every past benefit
unrequited, every past endearment unre-
garded, of that departed being who can
never, never return to be soothed by thy
condition.
If thou art child, and hast ever add
ed a sorrow to the soul, or fnrrow to
the silver brow Of an affectionate parent
If thou art husband, and hast ever
caused the fond bosom that has ventured
its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt
one moment Of thy kindness and truth
if thou art friend who hast ever wrong
ed, in thought, or word, or deed, the
spirit that generously conlided in thee
if thou art a lover, and hast given one
unmerited pang to that heart that now
lies cold and stiff beneath thy feet then
be sure that every unkind look, every un-
gracious word, every ungentle action,
will come thronging back upon the mem
DRY and knock dolefully upon thy soul;
then be sure thou wilt lie down SORROW
ing and repenting on the grave, and utter
the unheard groan, and pour the unavail-
ing tear more deep, more bitter, because
unheard and unavailing.
Then weave the chapet Of flowers and
strew the beauties Of Nature about the
grave-console thy broken spirit if thou
canst, with those tender yet fertile tributes
of regret, and take warning by the Bit
terncss of this thy contrite affection over
the dead, and henceforward be more faith
full and affeetonate in the discharge Of
thy duties to the living.