She thinks that not only the eye
sees her virtuous efforts from whom all her comfort now must flow, and
whose approbation is life; but her imagination, a little abstracted
and exalted by grief, dwells on the fond hope that the eyes which
her trembling hand closed, may still see how she subdues every wayward
passion to fulfil the double duty of being the father as well as the
mother of her children. Raised to heroism by misfortunes, she
represses the first faint dawning of a natural inclination, before
it ripens into love, and in the bloom of life forgets her sex- forgets
the pleasure of an awakening passion, which might again have been
inspired and returned. She no longer thinks of pleasing, and conscious
dignity prevents her from priding herself on account of the praise
which her conduct demands. Her children have her love, and her
brightest hopes are beyond the grave, where her imagination often
strays.
I think I see her surrounded by her children, reaping the reward
of her care. The intelligent eye meets hers, whilst health and
innocence smile on their chubby cheeks, and as they grow up the
cares of life are lessened by their grateful attention. She lives to
see the virtues which she endeavoured to plant on principles, fixed
into habits, to see her children attain a strength of character
sufficient to enable them to endure adversity without forgetting their
mother's example.
The task of life thus fulfilled, she calmly waits for the sleep of
death, and rising from the grave, may say- Behold, thou gavest me a
talent- and here are five talents.
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