And shall I pass thee o'er, thou gentle spirit?—Was there ought in thy propensions—or in thy way of journeying through the windings of this sad world?—Was there ought unfilial in thy feelings?—ought undeserving or forbidding, that should incline me to overlook thee?—Ah; No—no—Trust me, gentle YORICK, I more than lov'd thee—There was a courtesy in thy demeanor—a milky and humane temperature about thy pulses—and a compassion in the turn of thy mind—however excursive—however retrograde—however digressive—that awaken the most tender recollection—A recollection which hurries the blood into the most affectionate extremities.—Gracious God, what a throb was there!—As I live—and as I love thee—and by the soul of thy venerable relation, the tears are bathing my eye-lashes, while I am talking of thee—And could'st thou
—(Oh that Death should have made it necessary to cry alas! in a parenthesis)—could'st thou, YORICK, at this moment, lay thy hand upon my heart—the violence of the motion about the center, would confess the mother—and the tumult of the vessels, together with the rebounds of the pulsation, might assure thee, how thou art rank'd in my estimation—Estimation!—hear me,
Yorick, there is another Alas for thee—Thou can'st not hear—
Genius has much to say of thee—Thou wert nothing else—Thy heart, and head, and every delicate appendage, were the constant champions of all the Charities—all the Civilities.—Thou had'st not, indeed any parade—any ostensibility—or religious prudery about thee—but yet hast thou done more to the cause of Virtue, than if thou had'st gone scowling through life.—In all thy excursions—and whimsical meanders—
Sensibility took thee by the hand—by the heart I might have said—and made thee accessible to every tender
entreaty—every soft petition found its way into thy pocket—the thing was irresistible—
Pity seconded the request,
Sympathy thirded it—and if thou haply had'st nothing to bestow—why it was an hard case, and would cost thee a tear—a drop of disappointment—an elixir to the sorrowing soul—a treasure rising from the fulness of a rich heart, and it was given without grudging—so would it, had it been chrystal.—I honour thy sentiments, and I venerate thy memory—thou would'st not suffer a nettle to grow upon the grave of an enemy—nor shall
Genius ever suffer a weed to grow upon thine.—Peace—peace to thy shade.
