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And now 't is fast retiring; years have flown,
One score and five, nor left much trace behind,
so truly sympathized with her sufferings, and who had been almost alone in discerning the powers of that mind in whose cultivation he was chiefly instrumental, was now passing from the earth, and she would behold him no more, not even in the dying hour. Again he was restored, and probably in such intervals of affliction and hope these touching lines were composed. Four weeks she lay without seeing that venerable countenance, though from below she heard the sound of the precious words, which all who knew him will treasure up as the last legacy of an aged Christian in the immediate prospect of eternal bliss. If we place ourselves in her situation, we shall not wonder that, as her father lay dead in the house, it was a consolation to her deeply wounded spirit to dictate these lines, at a sister's request, to a friend who was seeking to pour into the hearts of the mourning family the balm of consolation. Nor shall we be surprised, that now, when the bright returning June has clothed the earth afresh in its garments of green, she often gazes from the window at the head of her couch, over the orchard, where but lately she saw him walking beneath the trees, or, supported by his daughters, feebly attempting to select the spot for his burial. And when we look upon the unmarked mound in the corner of that orchard, we shall understand why the daughter dropped a tear on the flower that was brought to her, the first that had bloomed on her father's grave.—June 2st, 1834.]
