But yet, far sinking to his rest,
The golden king of day behold,
The crimson curtains of the west
Are richly fring'd with molten gold.
Thus brightly may your life decline,
Though youth may fade upon your brow,
May Truth and Virtue radiant shine,
E'en like yon sinking sun beam now.
Letter, from the Pen of My Husband, Now Deceased.
_Pawtucket, June_ 20, 1852.
Mrs. M. M. Bucklin:
My daughter in affliction, I would that, like Paul on Mars Hill, I
could enter at once, with eloquence and persuasion, on a subject that
might have the influence of restoring or bringing back your natural
buoyancy and elasticity of spirit. I need not tell you that I feel
earnestly, sensibly and deeply for you; and any mortal effort or
sacrifice within my power should not be wanting to effect an object so
desirable by your friends. But Malvina, an arm of flesh is not to
be relied upon; no human ken can reach the mysterious windings and
wonderful intricacies of a mother's love for her offspring. That
is, as yet, the unrevealed handiwork of Omnipotence, who in wisdom
conceived the beautiful mechanism, and brought to perfection the
refinements of our nature; and to his almighty fiat are we indebted,
both for the boon of death and the glorious hope of the resurrection.
How peculiarly adapted to our consolation is the doctrine of the
resurrection. The angel of mercy has withdrawn from your boson a
beloved child.
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