Kneel, dash thyself upon the senseless ground, Writhe as the worm writhes with dividing wound, Invoke the heaven that knows thy sorrow’s truth, By all the softening memories of youth— By every hope that cheered thine earlier day— By every tear that washes wrath away— By every old remembrance long gone by— By every pang that makes thee yearn to die; And learn at length how deep and stern a blow Near hands can strike, and yet no pity show! Oh! weak to suffer, savage to inflict, Is man’s commingling nature; hear him now Some transient trial of his life depict, Hear him in holy rites a suppliant bow; See him shrink back from sickness and from pain, And in his sorrow to his God complain— ‘Remit my trespass, spare my sin,’ he cries, ‘All-merciful, All-mighty, and All-wise: Quench this affliction’s bitter whelming tide, Draw out thy barbed arrow from my side;’— And rises from that mockery of prayer To hate some brother-debtor in despair.” From what deep fountains of suffering must these lines have been drawn! What days, weeks, months of deferred hope, of doubt, and of final despair are recorded here! What life-drops from the minstrel wrung Have gushed with every word? The mother at length ceases, and the spirited girl shrinking from the picture of life which has been presented to her, thus replies:— “If this be so, then mother, let me die Ere yet the glow hath faded from my sky! Let me die young; before the holy trust, In human kindness crumbles into dust; Before I suffer what I have not earned Or see by treachery my truth returned; Before the love I live for fades away; Before the hopes I cherish’d most decay; Before the withering touch of fearful change Makes some familiar face look cold and strange, Or some dear heart close knitted to my own, By perishing, hath left me more alone! Though death be bitter, I can brave its pain Better than all which threats if I remain, While my soul, freed from ev’ry chance of ill, Soars to that God whose high mysterious will, Sent me, foredoom’d to grief, with wandering feet To grope my way through all this fair deceit.” The mother then breaks forth in a beautiful strain, inculcating confidence in God and submission to his will. We have never heard a homily from any pulpit that has taught these lessons with one half the force and eloquence of these beautiful lines. If any of our readers, in the midst of sorrow, suffering or despair, are inclined to forget that there is “another and a better world,” we advise them to learn patience under tribulation from the lips of Mrs. Norton. We wish we could quote them—but we cannot—we have already transcended our limits and can only give the beautiful and touching end of this “sad and eventful history.”