Though it may, sometimes, throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom.
yet, who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure, or the burst of revelry?
No, there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song. There is a remembrance of the dead, to which we turn even from the charms of the living.
Oh, the grave! the grave! It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment!
From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections.
Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him?
But the grave of those we loved—what a place for meditation!
There it is that we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded in the daily intercourse of intimacy.
there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene.