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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. . . .