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How melancholy! Yet what a sweet and holy satis
faction. it is to visit the grave of our deceased friends
I have frequently sat at the window of my room
and gazed from thence on the grave of my dear Mother
A heap of dust is all that remain of thee our
sainted mother! How memory clings to that pile
I once moulded into symmetry. But no portrait however
accurate could bring so many associated connected
with my childhood sunny hours as the heap of dust
now resting under those sod. And often when
watching that large old weeping willow stooped
down by age, have I been reminded of those beautifuil
touching lines of Cowper. . . .