172 THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. 



ceeded by the starling tear, and half-uttered wliis- 

 per of, 'His poor Mother! what must she feel T 

 It is true that the onlline alor»e of ihi? sad slory is 

 innpressed on nny nnind ; but it is strongly engraven 

 there : and from it I have drawn lessons of thank- 

 fulness under all my most trying affliclions. In 

 every case, I had at least a iiielancholy certainty : 

 I have not been left to endure the long torture of 

 mocking hope — of that wild, obstinate clinging to 

 bare and meagre possibility that the sorrows of 

 ray soul might be suddenly turned into unspeaka- 

 ble, worldly, joy. We do not half consider the 

 measure of mercy that is given to sooth our bitter- 

 est grief. We do not, as we mighl, take a survey 

 of what others have had to encounter, when worm- 

 ■vvood has been added to their gall. There are 

 some who would barter all the comforts left in 

 their lot, for that which may be our deepest grief 

 — the sight of a quiet grave, where the hearths 

 most cherished treasure peacefully moulders be« 

 neath. They could be resigned, if they assuredly 

 knew that all was indeed over: but that cruel 

 phantom of hope for ever flits before their eyes ; 

 and the spirit cannot rest — cannot turn away from 

 the pictures that imagination is constantly pour- 

 traying, of what mav be reserved of future dis- 

 covery, and reunion here. In ordinary cases, the 

 vacated seat is again occupied : and the heart 

 can struggle into acquiescence that so it should be: 



