Seldom, if ever,
was there witnessed a more touching scene than this.
There lay the young woman, pale and feeble, with death stamped upon
her countenance, surrounded by the sons and daughters of Africa,
some of whom had been separated from every earthly tie, and the most
of whose persons had been torn and gashed by the negro-whip. Some
were upon their knees at the bedside, others standing around,
and all weeping.
Death is a leveler; and neither age, sex, wealth, nor condition,
can avert when he is permitted to strike. The most beautiful
flowers must soon fade and droop and die. So, also, with man;
his days are as uncertain as the passing breeze. This hour
he glows in the blush of health and vigor, but the next, he may
be counted with the number no more known on earth. Oh, what a
silence pervaded the house when this young flower was gone!
In the midst of the buoyancy of youth, this cherished one had
dropped and died. Deep were the sounds of grief and mourning
heard in that stately dwelling when the stricken friends,
whose office it had been to nurse and soothe the weary sufferer,
beheld her pale and motionless in the sleep of death.
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