I could once
have spoken to her of a Father in heaven, and of a better world; but I
could speak on those subjects no longer. I could once have kneeled by
her side and prayed; but I could pray no more. I could neither comfort
myself nor my dying charge. She passed away without a word of
consolation or a whisper of hope to cheer her as she trod the dark
valley of the shadow of death. I stood by, afflicted and comfortless,
when her lifeless form was committed to its final resting-place, unable
to speak a word of hope or consolation to the sorrowing minds that were
gathered around her grave. She was interred on the slope of the hill, on
the opposite side of the stream over against my farm, within view of the
field and the garden in which I often worked, and the lonely dwelling in
which I frequently slept. And there she lay, far from her kindred and
her native land, the wild winds moaning over her solitary grave, and no
sweet word about God, or Christ, or a better life, to mark the spot
where she slept. And there, on that quiet farm, and in that solitary
dwelling, with that one melancholy grave in view, I passed at times the
long sad days, and the still and solemn nights, in utter loneliness,
gazing on the desolate scenes around, or feeding on saddening thoughts
within, "without hope and without God in the world.
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