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"But memory---sad in the the task---gathers the golden dust, And ruefully pieces to-gether link and link
and link, Shows me the golden thing whole as it was before, Yea, round the core of my heart it casts the golden
chain, My golden, golden chain."
Is this the day of his return? Hearts beat high with fond expectation. Brothers and sisters and mother wait
to receive him into the arms of love. Eyes are strained for the first glimpse of the fair ship- fairer than the
bereaved poets--that bring him from English shore laden with honors, crowned with distinctions, and wearing on
his serene brow the laurels of learning. Loving ones, long to be the foremost to shake him by the hand and give
him a cordial welcome home. A light shines in the eyes of the mother at hope of seeing the Benjamin of her family
once more near her after the separation of years, miles and seas, near her, to be greeted with her kisses not less
warm, not less fond, than those she had lavished on him in the days of her darling boy's curls and prattle. The
sisters, rejoicing in their brother's joys and glad in his great achievements, are gladder that the love with which
they petted their little brother in the early years would be none the less when they see their little hero a full
grown man, manly, graceful to look upon and lovable as of old; and I, who had learnt to love him long before a
daughter of his house had linked her destinies to mine, count and recount a hundred things on which I would hold
converse with him and with me when we meet things attempted, things achieved, hopes realised and ambitions attained.
So glad is the meeting of friends-how rapturous will be the greeting when I meet him.
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Dear as the mother to the son
More than my brothers are to me! |
What a glad delusion, joy-giving and full of peace! But the reality how intensely sorrowful how grievously heartbreaking!
Is this the year of his return? But he returns not, no fair ship brings him home, eyes that ought to be bright
with joy are misty with tears, and hearts that were once expectant are heavy with sorrow. Memories, joyous memories
tinged with grief make sport of our feelings arid seem to counterfeit reality.
I well remember the days, even now after eight of many incidents, when little boy in shorts used regularly come
to me to read the essays of Goldsmith and write his own after the manner of the Citizen of the World.
Vividly do I recall the cheerful face, with a never failing smile on it, of that boy-figure of whom there is now
left to me but a memory. The rock-girt shore of Mount Lavinia, the roar and rattle of passing trains, the busy
days of work and the Sabbath quiet conjure, to my mind the laborious student and friend of many confidences, of
whom there is now left to me but a memory. Of books and men, common things and God, we held converse and wrote
and thought to the enriching of our minds and the ennobling of our spirits - he was the sharer of my thoughts and
my constant companion-my soul is bereaved, and there is now left to it but the comfort of a memory. It seems but
yesterday - day that we stood together silence of the tall teaks of his house and talked of many things, clasped
hands and clasped again, bade adieu and bade once more; it yesterday that my eyes to the last turn of the heels
of the coach that took away from me my dearest friend - O, that I had known that I was to see him no more in this
life! I read today his first letter from Oxford wishing me joy on a great event in my life and the words
sound in my ears with the dear familiarity of his voice as I had hear him last.
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