That no remorse can e'er wash out the stain, Nor e'en repentance make it pure again :— Bright as the Loire, above—a grave beneath; Without all beauty—and within it, Death.
There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness and despondency; who that has pined an a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness of a foreign land, but has thought on the mother ' that looked on his childhood,' that smoothed his pillow, and administered to his helplessness ? Oh! there is an enduring tenderness in the love of a mother to a son that transcends all other affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame and exult in his prosperity; and if adversity overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name she will still love and cherish him; and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him.
Washington Irving.
What heart of man unmoved can lie, When plays the smile in beauty's eye ? Or when a form of grace and love To music's notes can lightly move ?
