patriot, and is a patriot still. Posterity has forgotten him. The
simple slab, of red freestone, that bore his name, was broken long ago,
and is now covered by the gradual accumulation of the soil. A tuft of
thistles is his only monument. This upright spirit came to his grave,
after a lengthened life, with so little stain of earth, that be might,
almost immediately, have trodden the pathway of the sky. But his strong
love of country chained him down, to share its vicissitudes of weal or
woe. With such deep yearning in his soul, he was unfit for heaven.
That noblest virtue has the effect of sin, and keeps his pure and lofty
spirit in a penance, which may not terminate till America be again a
wilderness. Not that there is no joy for the dead patriot. Can he fail
to experience it, while be contemplates the mighty and increasing power
of the land, which be protected in its infancy? No; there is much to
gladden him. But sometimes I dread to meet him, as he returns from the
bedchambers of rulers and politicians, after diving into their secret
motives, and searching out their aims. He looks round him with a stern
and awful sadness, and vanishes into his neglected grave. Let nothing
sordid or selfish defile your deeds or thoughts, ye great men of the
day, lest ye grieve the noble dead.

Few ghosts take such an endearing interest as this, even in their own
private affairs. It made me rather sad, at first, to find how soon the
flame of love expires amid the chill damps of the tomb; so much the
sooner, the more fiercely it may have burned. Forget your dead
mistress, youth! She has already forgotten you. Maiden, cease to weep
for your buried lover! He will know nothing of your tears, nor value
them if he did. Yet it were blasphemy to say that true love is other
than immortal. It is an earthly passion, of which I speak, mingled with
little that is spiritual, and must therefore perish with the perishing
clay. When souls have loved, there is no falsehood or forgetfulness.