Remember:
“There is woe whose pang
Outlasts the fleeting breath.
Oh, what eternal horrors hang
Around the second death.”
Perhaps you came out of a religious home and had a legacy of faithful prayers; a pious parent dedicated you to God in infancy, and as the baptisimal drops fell on your baby brow, they fervently hoped that your nature might know the inward cleansing of which that rite was the outward sign.
All the riches of Midas would not give you such pleasure as the memories of that dear old couple, if you were in the way they trod so long. Oft in the village church, or at the cottage altar, your father, bowed with white hair and dim eye, lifted his voice in supplication for you. Oft he led you o’er the hill on Sabbath Day, pensive, rejoicing, giving you good counsel in quiet tones, or telling at dusk with open Bible, and the family in a circle about him, some rich story of Holy Writ, which now comes back at times in the quaint old-fashioned words to your remembrance as you trample daily on the truth he taught you. A verse of some melodious hymn sung by your mother floats up out of the past, sweeter than opera strains to you.
Can the driveling ditties and sentimental songs affected by your associates drown the cadence of that tender old voice crooning the songs of Zion? Often she looked in your eyes. They were not bloodshot then, not dim with vigils at the iniquitous game, but pure and deep as the wells of Gaza; your face was as the dawn to her, your forehead candid and fair.
What dreams she had of your useful and exalted career. Has it all come to this? Are you not glad the saintly old couple are asleep on the hillside under the yew trees, with eyes closed and hands folded in the long rest! Could you revisit that place you would not care to meet old friends, they might ask annoying questions and start vain regrets. You would just slip out half a mile to that burial ground, every step seeming to make your burden heavier, every moment to aggravate your unbearable guilt. Once there, by those two graves, alone, unseen of man, you would bow and put your face in the grass, weeping that you could get no nearer to the beloved ones. This you would do, and it would be the manliest thing you have done for many a miserable month.
There is a manlier yet. That old couple is not there; they are nearer to you than that in spirit, they are not far from you now. Better than tears to them would be the solemn resolution to leave this moment and for aye the guilty men and evil trade which have brought you low.