They are not all there—our dead—buried in the churchyard, beneath the grave, o'ershadowed by a cross, and round which the roses bloom.
There are others which nothing can recall; they are things which belong to the heart alone, and there alas! have found a tomb.
Peace surrounds me to-day; and here in my lone chamber I will invoke them, my much-loved dead. Come!
The first that present themselves are the sweet years of childhood, so fresh, so guileless, so happy.
They were made up of loving caresses, bountiful rewards, and fearless confidence: the words, pain, danger, care, were unknown; they brought me simple pleasures, happy days without a thought for the morrow, and only required from me a little obedience.
Alas! they are dead ... and what numberless things have they carried with them! What a void they have left!
Candor, lightheartedness, simplicity, no longer find a place within!
Family ties, so true, so wide, so light, have all vanished!
The homely hearth, the simple reward earned by the day's industry, maternal chidings, forgiveness so ingenuously sought, so freely given, promises of amendment, so sincere, [pg 117] so joyously received.... Is this all gone forever? can I never recall them?