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On the acclivity of a gentle swell of ground, in the heart of a dense and extensive forest, in Medford, Mass., is a solitary grave. Uninclosed, and without name, inscription, or monumental stone, it is designated only by a simple turf-covered mound, close at the foot of a tall, wide-spreading pine, and overhung by its branches. Yet, in the milder seasons of the year, it may often be found strewed over with the offerings of Memory, Love, and Sorrow, in their fresh-gathered emblem-flowers of garden growth; showing that it is neither forgotten nor forsaken, but that the foot of affection loves to thread its way into the bosom of the dark and pathless wild, to bear out the frequent tribute to its hallowed shrine.
Beneath the mound, in that isolated spot, sleep the mortal remains of a youth of uncommon loveliness of character, mental endowments, and personal beauty; but who, with these, possessed a delicately-built frame, of frail constitution, through which the fire of genius shone with a vivid morning light, of seeming great promise, till it assumed a fatal brilliancy, and, by its fervor, proved too powerful at the seat of life. It is the last resting-place of the late Mr. William Russell, son of Professor Russell, of Medford, aged about twenty-three years.
The bent of his genius being decidedly to painting and sketching from native scenery, Mr. Russell loved to take solitary rambles in wild, unfrequented places, to study the lights and shades of Nature, and drink inspiration from her deepest retreats.
On the 3d of May, 1846,—taking with him the implements of his art, a book to peruse, and a small cup, which, on such occasions, served him to drink from some cool spring on his way,—he left his home, without indicating the course he should pursue, but expecting to return before nightfall. As he did not appear when expected, the family supposed he might have extended his excursion to the house of a friend, in a neighbouring town. But days, weeks, and months elapsed, and no trace could be found to solve the mystery of his absence, till the last week of the following July, when some children, roaming the wild for whortleberries, came abruptly upon the spot where lay his lifeless form. Its attitude was calm, as one lies down to rest, —the hand partly under the cheek, and the articles he had carried out lying near him undisturbed, and apparently just as he had placed them.
His friends,—thinking that, could he have foreseen the event, his choice would have been to be buried where he died, and the owner of the ground, like the children of Heth, kindly urging their acceptance of the spot for “a lasting possession” for them to bury their dead—had the funeral rites performed there;—and there, beneath the same sods that had been his dying-bed, they laid him in his final rest. As he had several times manifested symptoms of disease of the heart, this was supposed to have caused his death some time during the day of his leaving home.
Such, it will be seen, is the view taken in the following poem,—the writer supposing the rapture enkindled by the scene to have acted in too powerful emotion on the vital principle.
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