The Weight of Grief

It is so long before the mind can persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day,

and whose very existence appeared a part of our own, can have departed for ever—that the

brightness of a beloved eye can have been extinguished, and the sound of a voice so familiar,

and dear to the ear, can be hushed, never more to be heard.

These are the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the reality of the evil,

then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from whom has not that rude hand

rent away some dear connexion; and why should I describe a sorrow which all have felt,

and must feel? The time at length arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than