As I pass it, I feel as if I saw a dear old mother, sweet in her

The poet Thomas Edward Brown, in his solemn words, declares: “As I pass it, I feel as if I saw a dear old mother, sweet in her weakness, trembling at the approach of her dissolution, but not appealing to me against the inevitable, rather endeavouring to reassure me by her patience, and pointing to a hopeful future.” In this saying, there is the music of sorrow mingled with the song of hope, for he gazes upon something ancient, fading, yet noble in its final moments. These words are not only about the passing of a motherly figure, but also about the passing of all things old—be it lands, traditions, or even the mighty civilizations that once stood proud beneath the sun.

The image of the “dear old mother” is no accident. To Brown, the crumbling form is not a corpse to be feared, but a tender, venerable being who holds still the dignity of love. In her “sweet weakness” we perceive that decay does not strip away value, but instead clothes it in humility. Even as dissolution approaches, she trembles not in defiance, nor cries against the inevitable. Instead, she extends to the living a final gift: patience. Her quiet endurance becomes a lesson more powerful than any sermon, teaching that endings need not be met with terror, but with a spirit that points to renewal.

Consider the fate of Rome, that great mother of the West. Once clad in marble and steel, she too trembled in her twilight, seeing her legions falter and her empire fracture. Yet in her dissolution, she did not vanish entirely into dust. From her fall rose the seeds of law, language, and culture that endure even now. Rome, like the mother of Brown’s vision, reassured her children by pointing to a hopeful future, even as her own body crumbled into ruin. Thus, history teaches us that the passing of the old is not the death of all, but the planting of a root for what is yet to come.

There is also a gentler story. In the fields of Japan, after the devastation of Hiroshima, many survivors, scarred yet steadfast, resembled that same trembling figure of Brown’s words. Weak and weary, they might have surrendered to despair. Yet instead, many endured with quiet dignity, planting seeds, rebuilding homes, and teaching their children the ways of peace. Their silence was not hopelessness, but a whisper to the generations: “The old life fades, but from our ashes, build anew.” Their very endurance was itself a reassurance, just as the poet describes.

In this light, the inevitable is not a curse, but a passage. All things must dissolve, as rivers surrender to seas and stars eventually fall into night. But if we, like the mother in Brown’s vision, meet dissolution not with frantic grasping, but with patient faith, then we transform death into a bridge. The future is never barren, for time always plants tomorrow in the soil of today’s ending.

The lesson, dear listener, is clear. We must not fear the trembling moments of decline, whether in our lives, our work, or even in the fading of traditions we once cherished. Rather, we must behold them with reverence, and learn from their patience. When the old fades, let us carry its wisdom forward, weaving its memory into the hopeful fabric of what comes next. For the past, like the dear mother, does not beg us to halt the flow of time, but to walk forward with courage, hearts reassured.

Therefore, I urge you: when you encounter decline, do not rush to despair. When you see a friend in weakness, or a beloved institution faltering, do not recoil. Instead, behold them with tenderness. Listen to their quiet dignity. Take from their fading strength a spark of wisdom, and kindle in yourself the resolve to build. Let every ending in your life be a teacher, every trembling moment a reminder that beyond the dusk lies the promise of dawn.

And so, let Thomas Edward Brown’s vision live in us. See the old mother not as a symbol of loss, but as a messenger of continuity. From her patience, draw strength; from her dissolution, draw purpose. The path of life is strewn with endings, but each ending is a sacred pointing hand, guiding us toward a hopeful future. This is the way of time, and the way of the wise.