 | Randolph |  |
JULIET TO SARAH.
I have been a little unwell, my dear sister; for so, I
must call you, that, if we cannot make up in nearness,
we may in number, the relations that you have lost;---
but the first thing that I have attempted, as soon as I am
able to hold a pen, is to write to you; not, with the vain
hope of offering consolation to a daughter, in the hour
of her bereavement and affliction; no, dear Sarah, but to
weep with you; to kneel with you; and to pray to Him,
whose mercy endureth forever, that He will have compassion
on the sick and weary of heart; “that he will temper
the wind to the shorn lamb,” and be to thee, my sister,
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unworthiness, a present helper indeed—father!—mother!
brothers and sisters! O, blessed be his name. Without
his indulgent, and sustaining hand, how utterly helpless
were our situation! two orphans—afar and apart—alone,
in the wide world,—beset with many dangers;—one exposed
to the profligate and sordid, by her wealth; the
other to—all the world—by her poverty. Ah, Sarah, it
were difficult to say, which was the most enviable situation;
that, where the purest offerings of the heart are liable
to be suspected of impurity; where, whatever may be
its disinterestedness, passion and vehemence, and truth
and tenderness; they can never be proved,—because
the shrine of its idol is of fine gold, and rough with precious
stones:—or that, where the true heart is continually
pressed, and pressed; and tortured and wrung,
while there is one drop of life left within it—by poverty
and dependance. O, Sarah! O, my sister! how many a
delicate creature, appointed by heaven to all the offices
of love, and tenderness, on earth—to be a wife—and a mother—to
some dear, noble hearted man, and some sweet
babe,—hath been pinioned and bound, and offered up in
sacrifice—either by her poverty, her pride, or her revenge.
How many a maiden hath perjured herself;—
how many a widow re-sold the desolate tenement of love,
to the highest bidder—Ah, the thought is too cruel.—
What can I say to thee? Nothing but this, my beloved
sister, nothing but this—to put thy trust in heaven.
JULIET.
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