There settle the account with thy
conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment
unregarded of that being who can never, never, never return to be
soothed by thy contrition.
If thou art a child and hast ever added a
sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an
affectionate parent; if thou art a husband and hast ever caused the
fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one
moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend and hast
ever wronged in thought, word or deed the spirit that generously
confided in thee; if thou art a lover and hast ever given one
unmerited pang to that true heart that now lies cold and still beneath
thy feet, then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word,
every ungentle action will come thronging back upon thy memory and
knocking dolefully at thy soul....
Then weave that chaplet of flowers and strew the beauties of nature
about the grave; console thy broken spirit if thou canst with these
tender, though futile, tributes of regret; but take warning over the
dead, and be more faithful and affectionate in the discharge of thy
duties to the living." Reader, allow not pensive September to close in
without visiting Mount Hermon, linger under its silent shades, go
partake of the joy of grief, and meditate at the grave of a buried
love.
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