Aylmer, dearest Aylmer, I am dying!"
Alas! it was too true! The fatal hand had grappled with the mystery of
life, and was the bond by which an angelic spirit kept itself in union
with a mortal frame. As the last crimson tint of the birthmark--that
sole token of human imperfection--faded from her cheek, the parting
breath of the now perfect woman passed into the atmosphere, and her
soul, lingering a moment, near her husband, took its heavenward
flight. Then a hoarse, chuckling laugh was heard again! Thus ever does
the gross fatality of earth exult in its invariable triumph over the
immortal essence which, in this dim sphere of half-development,
demands the completeness of a higher state. Yet, had Aylmer reached a
profounder wisdom, he need not thus have flung away the happiness
which would have woven his mortal life of the selfsame texture with
the celestial. The momentary circumstance was too strong for him; he
failed to look beyond the shadowy scope of time, and, living once for
all in eternity, to find the perfect future in the present.
NOTES
[1] Published in the March, 1843, number of _The Pioneer_, edited by
J. R. Lowell. Republished in _Mosses from an Old Manse_ in 1846.
[2] 154:29 "Eve," of Powers. A noted American sculptor (1805-1873).
"Eve," "The Fisher Boy," and "America" are some of his chief works.
[3] 168:28 Pygmalion. A sculptor and king of Cyprus.
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