I approached the enclosure, as the gardener had directed me. There were five graves. In which slept the poetess? for there was not even a headstone! The flush of indignant feeling mounted to my temples; the warm tears started from my eyes. She was forgotten! Sweet, gifted Fanny! in her own family burial place she was forgotten! The stranger from a distance, who had worshipped her genius, might in vain make a pilgrimage to do her honour. I, who had personally known and loved her, had not even the poor consolation of decking the bosom of her grave with the flowers I had gathered; I could not kiss the turf beneath which she is reposing; I could not drop a tear on the sod, ‘neath which her remains are mouldering back to their native dust. I could not tell (though I so longed to know), in which of the little graves—for there were several—slept her “dear May,” her “pure Ellen;” the little, timid, household doves, who folded their weary wings when the parent bird was stricken down, by the aim of the unerring Archer.
Though allied by no tie of blood to the gifted creature, who, somewhere, lay sleeping there, I felt the flush of shame mount to my temples, to turn away and leave her dust so unhonoured. Oh, God! to be so soon forgotten by all the world!—How can even earth look so glad, when such a warm, passionate heart lies cold and pulseless? Poor, gifted, forgotten Fanny! She “still lives” in my heart; and, Header, glance your eye over these touching lines, “written during her last illness,” and tell me, Shall she not also live in thine?
A MOTHER’S PRAYER IN ILLNESS.
BY MRS. OSGOOD.
Yes! take them first, my Father! Let my doves
Fold their white wings in Heaven safe on thy breast,
Ere I am called away! I dare not leave
Their young hearts here, their innocent, thoughtless hearts!
Ah! how the shadowy train of future ills
Comes sweeping down life’s vista, as I gaze.