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 child, in whoſe life her own was bound up, ſnatched from her by a premature death, and with her ſon all her bright proſpects, like the baſeleſs fabric of a viſion, were forever vaniſhed? How would her too full breaſt be ready to burſt with the most poignant sorrow, when she beheld her son, to whom she was so closely attached by the tenderest ties of affection, stretched on the cold bed of death? Then what bitterness would her heart not know? Would she not be ready, in the first transports of her grief, to arraign the Providence of, and, in the bitterness of her soul, to call his goodness in question? See her in the attitude of the most heart-rending grief, posted at the bedside of her departed son, exclaiming, "Have I lived to see you, the son of my vows, the stay of my widowhood; the staff of my age, the delight of my eyes; you that was only lovely and dear to me upon earth; have I lived to see you snatched from me in the very bloom of thy years? Have I nourished and reared you up with so much care, only so prematurely to add to the number of the dead? Why art thou cut off in the midst of thy days, and I, thy