Once more the manly form and beaming face of
Henry Hamilton rose before me, and I seemed to hear his clear, ringing
laugh. I thought of all his sanguine hopes and earnest plans for
usefulness; how eagerly he had striven to excel in study; how warmly he
had sympathized with the suffering and sorrowful; how joyfully he had
entered into the recreations of the happy; and then I thought of the
sudden blighting of all those warm affections, those passionate desires.
But were they blighted? Rather, was not all that was good and lovely in
him, still existing and perfecting? Was he not still loving,
sympathizing, rejoicing? True, that outward form was now dust beneath my
feet, and it was sad that any thing so beautiful should have passed away
from before our eyes; but the warmly-beating soul with all its noble
longings, and rich aspirations, had not perished with it. When, oh when,
shall we learn that we and those we love, are immortal beings? When
shall we learn that death does not destroy, only remove them and us?
The grass had sprung up thick and green over little Arthur's grave, and
the sweet morning sunlight lay quietly upon it.
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