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Hanna, Abigail Stanley

"Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland"


It was an hour that closed the scorner's lip, and made the most
profligate feel he was in the presence of a prayer-hearing God.
The bell, as if by some mysterious agency, commenced tolling, and its
sad knell sounded through that long night, over the bosom of the lone
sea. It was the same bell that rang so loud and clear on the day of
the boat's first departure from New York; but now how different are
the tones as they mingle with ocean's wail, and the fearful shriek of
the howling blast.
It was like the changes that come over us so often, as we toss upon
the tide of life, and buffet its adverse storms.
Many, ere morning dawned, found a watery grave.
It is not my intention to particularize, but draw the contrast of the
first and last night the beautiful boat tossed upon the mighty deep.
Perchance the same eyes that witnessed her departure from the shore,
anxiously watched her return that morning, and the anticipated
greeting of many a dear friend burned bright in many a heart, but was
soon--very soon--to be forever extinguished, as the loved, expected
form was even then buried beneath the ocean wave. Many a mother had
prepared the sumptuous thanksgiving breakfast, for a long-absent
expected son, who, perchance, was offering up his thanksgiving anthem
before the throne of God.
Hoary age and helpless infancy fell alike, before the destroying
angel, and there were vacancies in almost all the relations of life.


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