Comfort Makepeace was naturally gloomy, from his birth, and his temperament had by no means grown lighter in his old age. He grew daily more unhappy and austere, until the cloud on his brow became settled and irremovable. The spirit of irreligion that was abroad, and particularly the advances it had made within the circle of his own family, were fast wearing upon his strength, and the iron constitution which had resisted a thousand shocks, gave way to the force of mental affliction.
Comfort Makepeace died lamented, and, as in a thousand other cases, the deceased acquired more honor than the living had gained respect. One, of his strongly-marked character, could hardly expect to pass through life without experiencing the bitterness of enmity. Yet his uncompromising independence and stern integrity won for him a reverence among his fellow men, which few, devoid of those qualities, ever receive. The confirmed austerity of his manners did not permit him to enjoy the delights of friendship, or to appreciate its value. The bigoted illiberality with which his religious sentiments were marked, suited not the character of so late an age; but the unimpeachable honesty of his faith insured it from obvious disrespect. Long and loud were his dying lamentations over the faults of the age, and not less particularly over the best hope that the rites and observances of the puritans would be perpetuated in his own family.
'If e'er the blest to earth descend, O come, my mother and my friend, And GOD by thee will comfort send, To cheer this gloom!
MY Mother! o'er thy lowly grave The stormy winds may blow, And spreading branches rudely wave, Nor break thy rest below. The bird that mounts on joyous wing, To hail the rising day, Though sweet the careless warbler sing, Pours not for thee his lay!
The stranger, as with pensive eye, He scans thy burial-stone, May heave, perchance, a transient sigh For sorrows of his own; But few of all the friendly band Who smiled thy face to see, Untouched by the Destroyer's hand, Remain to think of thee!
Yet often, mingling with the crowd Who thronged yon house of prayer, In humble posture thou hast bowed, And loved to worship there. The solemn notes of sacred lays Which through those arches rung, Once filled thy heart with grateful praise, And trembled on thy tongue!